Look Me in the Eye and Say Legilimens
by Magic Flying Spud
Summary: Harry is a Hitwizard (and also MIA.) Draco is a Legilimens (and fakes going on vacation to find Harry.) It's been eight years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and now a Death Eater straggler is on the loose, killing Muggles. Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt pairs the two together because they're the magical world's best shot at stopping this mad man.
1. He Plays Out His Happiest of Sad Moments

Draco does not just _loathe_ running, he _abhors_ it. So the Ministry better be thankful for his Hit Wizard level of finesse in capturing this fiend. For not only is running simply _awful,_ it makes him sweat. How is he supposed to be the best dressed in his department when he has to roll up and squeeze his traveling cloak to eliminate all that extra perspiration?

You must understand, Draco Lucius Malfoy is by no means _vain_, oh, perish the thought! He just wants to retain a little _class_, seeing how every Gryffindor and their red and gold grandmother has dominated the traditional, humdrum thank-you-very-much crowd that once owned the floors of the Ministry. But then the Dark Lord fell, all because of one undeserving, stupid Gryffindor, one _Harry Potter_, and every other _daring, chivalrous, _and _courageous_ lout thought they could do what he did.

Ha! Potter's not even that talented of a Hit Wizard. After all he's been adrift for _weeks_ now. Completely off the map, they're all saying he's dead, but Draco knows better. Harry's too stupid for that. He's likely still at home trying to figure out how to work the damned Portkey again.

Psch. That's why Draco's here. In Ireland. He's going to find and arrest this heinous Dark Wizard that Potter had to make a big deal about pursuing. He's going to prove that Potter is in fact not dead, and show the world that he can be a hero too.

No, no. Draco doesn't care about being a hero, he just cares about other people's acknowledgements. Considering that fact that _Blaise Zabini_ of all people has been patting himself on the damn back every day for eight years because he did the Slytherin class good by not directly aligning himself with You-Know-Who, there's obviously a lot of work to do in regards to readjusting people's grandiose visions of what true heroism is.

The only other Hogwarts kid that seem to be on the same page as him are Gregory and Pansy. Gregory because he's draft, and Pansy because they've agreed that they're both terrible. It's like — their whole thing.

Perhaps Draco doesn't care about heroism. Perhaps when he stared down at the Dark Lord's pale body splayed in the beam of light blasting into the center of the Great Hall, he wasn't quite affected like he should have been. Perhaps Draco doesn't feel much at all anymore. Perhaps that's why he's a Legilimens. Because it allows for unfiltered visions of what emotions look like.

Hmph.

Or perhaps Draco just wants the Gryffindor class of '97 to stop galavanting around the halls as if it's the locker room to a bloody Quidditch game.

So yes. Draco is running. Now before you make the suggestion, yes, Draco remembers he's a wizard and yes of course if he could Apparate here, he would. He would in a heartbeat. But because of the bloody Statute of Secrecy —

…. ah, a little background is required then. The perp in question is a loser. Likely a renegade Death Eater, digging his nose into muck, grubby hands bunching up the dark robes brushing his forehead. Desperate for success, but too pitiful to fully implement change. So they pursue Muggles. Yes. A wizard has integrated into the Muggles and is offing them like crazy. It's not Draco's case, of course, it's Potter's, but he's still done some thinking on it. The culprit must be a from the bottom rung of ascension to Lord Voldemort's embrace. (And Draco is someone to know about embraces from Lord Voldemort.)

Draco cannot help but picture the perpetrator being Peter Pettigrew. But no, that's unlikely, seeing how the bloated rapscallion strangled himself to death or whatever.

Point being: This is a wizard so weak he resorts to killing defenseless Muggles, but smart enough to know how the Statute of Secrecy restricts the Aurors…

Draco's hands are tied. So he dashes, frightened that his long legs might tear the seams in his nice traveling cloak.

It's funny; Draco wouldn't have even noticed the scoundrel without their own interference. He was merely window shopping at a quaint Muggle shoppe. Fascinating to see how these people do their Potions work. He finds himself particularly entranced by this device called a _cast iron skillet_. It's heavy in his grip. He likes it.

Draco swishes it through the air, laughing to himself. _Incendio!_ he shouts under his breath. That's when there's a crash. Draco sees the shadow of a man stumbling out the door, decked in 1920ss noir pinstripes, totally out of place from the humdrum Muggles standing about. Surely, this _thug_ caught sight of Draco's extravagant robes and decided to high tail it.

Draco doesn't even need to think about throwing the cast iron skillet, he just does it. It spins and _crack!_ The man goes _Ow!_ It really is quite satisfying. But the man still runs. Doesn't turn to make a scene so it must be his man. Hero time it is then, Draco's sure that's how Potter felt after he yanked the Elder Wand from his clammy, pale hands back in the day.

Yes, he _yanked_ it. Not even a wandless Expelliarmus. But that is classic Potter, hm? The brute strength and gumption?

It's ironic really. Shacklebolt asked Draco far before Unforgivables were cast, if he may take on this special case due to his professional knowledge of the Dark Arts. But Draco said no because it's a little too close to home for him. Then this Dark Wizard killed someone. So the case raised to a profile higher than Draco's paygrade anyways. It fell to the Hit Wizards, and naturally Potter snatched the case off of someone else's desk and charged right in — and presumably died.

But Draco has faith. Hasn't Harry already died before or something? Oh! Excuse him. _Potter_. Since he's apparently in death's cold embrace right now, it's easier to slip and say _Harry._ But no-no. Let's not be civil here. It's _Potter_.

Potter doesn't allow himself to take on partners, not even bloody Weasley. So when Potter's been absent long enough to warrant a search team and it goes poorly, Shacklebolt once again confronts Draco. Please Draco. Put a spin on this. You know Dark Arts. You still kind of sort of probably hate Muggles. So help us figure out what happened! You have _experience_. Draco almost rolls up his sleeves to get through the paperwork, but then he'd be showing off his Dark Mark and you don't want to be giving anyone any ideas around here. Not when the ministry's been taken over by a bloody _fraternity_.

Keep your head down, Draco. Do the work. Be the one good Slytherin. So he pitches his theory — the low tier Death Eater run amok. Interrogations begin and Narcissa owls Draco. _Draco darling, why are the Crabbes receiving inquiries from the Aurors? Now that he's on board with the Wizengamot it really is quick embarrassing, but Shacklebolt has never cared for our side of things, has he? Did something happen?_

Then Narcissa receives a personal house visit from The Investigator Department, and Draco gets a Howler. Very embarrassing, though Weasley overhears it and actually punches Draco in the forearm. Flashes a grin. It's — nice.

But whoever this Death Eater is, they are very unfashionable. None of those ranked high enough to sit at the Dark Lord's long table would ever stoop to dressing like a Muggle. No. Their blood is too_ pure_ for that. This is someone who was never a true Death Eater to begin with, they were just power hungry. Like — ahem — himself.

This is someone remarkably untalented and embarrassingly stupid. Potter probably laughs at him, toys with him, and isn't ready when this uncomplicated person scrounges up the necessary hatred for an Unforgivable. That's the only way Draco can pen a narrative on this hoopla that runs true to the clues. But he still doesn't believe it. Potter can't really be dead. It doesn't just happen like that. Not for lucky bastards like him.

When Shacklebolt reads the report, he lifts it up to his upturned nose and frowns. Reads the text very slowly, occasionally twitching in response to some of Draco's verbiage. Draco braces himself, worried that perhaps he went too far. _Draco, you must remove yourself for at least one second if you are to plan something_, Severus would tell him, perhaps with a thwap to the head from a rolled up scroll.

But Shacklebolt merely smiles, a twinkle in his eyes. "_Everything appears to be in order,_" he says.

That whimsical vacancy reminds Draco of an old man he was once ordered to kill. Draco doesn't like that very much and decides to stuff it away, along with all the other thoughts Pansy tells him he ought to bring up in _therapy_.

Blech.

At long last, no more interruptions. Draco is running. It's abhorrent, as mentioned previously. He's been running for some time and finally catches up on this poorly concealed wizard. Draco _really_ does not want to rip his cloak so he slows down a step which proves to be a mistake. Because this Death Eater's packing.

Draco's heard of these before — revolviwhatsits — but never quite encountered them. He learns what they do quickly though; the Death Eater extends his arm into the air and fires off several bullets rapidly.

"_Protego_!" Draco screams and the air before him pushes forward like rolling waves and knocks the bullets clean out of the air. Draco returns to his sprint but does take a moment to marvel at what a bad shot this man is — none of the five bullets are even close to striking him, they all dangle yards above his head before tumbling down to the wet street.

There's a loud _clang!_ and _bang!_ And Draco has to jump so that he doesn't trip against the fallen trash can. His freshly polished shoes crunch against the ridges of steel and he nearly loses his balance, but no! He may be posh but he's not _that_ posh! So he kicks off and lands hard, running again. But when he smacks the pavement, brown waters lift from the puddles and lick the hem of his cloak.

Bloody hell, his mother made him that cloak and he really —

Red sparks blast from his shoulder, riding down his arm, pickin up speed as they pass his elbow, skim the Death Mark, and hit the wand. Smoke lifts off the wood and Draco jabs the instrument like a conductor finishing off a particularly intense piece, and shouts, "_Expelliarmus!"_

The scoundrel almost makes it scott-free, they almost turn around a corner and forever disappear. The case is left open and Draco never finds out what became of Harry James Potter. But no, Draco _would _hit this wanker at the exact moment that he'd be better off missing.

The spell nails the running man in the small of the back. His entire frame flinches and contorts itself with the sudden power branching through his nervous system and right to the tips of his fingers where the red sparks rush out and knock the revolver high, high into the air.

Draco smiles because it feels _good_ when the revolver falls into his pale hand and he holds it up like a prize. But his face falls just as fast because he wanted the man's wand not his bloody, barbaric gun.

But very quickly, the gun peels apart. The barrel, the hinge, the trigger, the cartridge, the bullets, all of it falls away like the worst balsa bridge at the science fair. The slats hit the ground leaving Draco with a wand. An actual bona fide wand and for a second, Draco decides he wants to become a Hit Wizard.

Bu then he looks closer at the wand and reconsiders that.

Eleven inches.

Limber and springy.

Holly.

Draco's breath catches in his throat before it eventually plumes out into a light fog. He doesn't need to look this man in the eye to know who he really is, but he takes the time to do so anyways because it briefly suspends a rather awkward conversation. Draco's wide eyes travel up the man's backside and his spine jitters at the sight of that dirty, brown neck he'll never quite get over. The man's shoulders rock up and down with racks of harsh breathing, but finally fall still. The unruly, jet black hair bounces one last time before falling in place besides the man's round cheeks.

Draco's whole body quakes with the shudder of his voice.

"Potter?"

Harry James Potter turns around slowly, lip curled into an ugly snarl. So adult, so worn looking. So — alive? But Draco forgets about the eight years that have passed when Harry's still boyish baritone cracks Malfoy's pink ears. "We don't have much time before The Ministry catches onto this. Find any Muggle that could have possibly witnessed any of this and Obliviate. Got it?"

Draco does not. "What?"

Potter rolls his eyes, and Draco feels like a fool. "Statute of Secrecy. We're both _Aurors_, Malfoy."

Malfoy puffs out his chest and fully takes Potter in. "Ah."

Potter waits. Looks from left to right. Arches his brows and looks at Malfoy expectantly. "My wand?"

"Oh. Oh. Yes."

Draco lobs the wand into the air and it spins a few times before unceremoniously thunking against a trash can and rolling into a puddle. Harry growls and shuts his eyes, raising his fingers into the air and,_"Expelliarmus!"_

_Bang!_

Draco's wand arcs through the air and lands into Potter's waiting hands — for the second time in their lives. Potter laughs and flashes his irresistibly pearly whites. "I'll give it back I promise."

"Mhm," Draco moans, plucking Harry's wand out of the muck and waving off the remaining residue.

Clearly Harry is livid and there will likely be a row following this — and Draco really ought to check the perimeter to make sure that if they did violate Magical Law that no one finds out. But he doesn't do it. He waits. He watches Potter saunter off as if this is not a big deal. Watches that brown neck bob up and down with the bounce of Harry's gait. Remembers how in sixth year he scanned every peripheral to make sure Potter wasn't breathing down _his_ neck.

Remembers how he was somewhat sad that Harry hadn't caught on to his master plan, how he had to _explain it_ to Dumbledore so that at least one person could appreciate his genius.

He looks at Harry's neck one last time before setting to work. It's strange. As abhorrent as he finds it, Draco feels a sudden compulsion to run.


	2. You Fuckers Made Me Spill the Beans

As stated prior, Draco Malfoy does not enjoy running. He loathes it, he abhors it, and all that. Yes yes.

Yet once _again_ Draco finds himself running. Harry's running too, which is kinda pissing Draco off. So he chases him to eventually tell him a little fuck he is.

Maybe Potter's training him for the Triathlon! Who knows?! Because do you think Draco knows why either of them are running? Of course not! He hasn't the foggiest because Potter has to be such a prat all the time, and Merlin's Beard he's got this flat, expressionless face and wouldn't you know it: an expertise in Occlumency. Yes. Once again, _The Boy Who Lived _thwarts the very core of Draco's being.

Ridiculous! Positively ridiculous. Why didn't anyone tell Draco that Harry was so adept with Occlumency before he took on Legilmency?! Bloody Hell.

Draco suddenly decides he actually abhores running so much that he must resort to other drastic means, even more abhorable than running.

_Screaming._

Draco screams. Harry stops immediately. Likely as a way to grant Malfoy mercy.

"Hey!_"_ Draco shrieks._ "_Do not run away with my bloody wand again you wanker!"

"Ah shit," Harry grunts from far ahead. Draco crosses his arms.

Harry lifts his left foot into the air and holds it perfectly perpendicular to the street and pivots on his heel until completely turned around and then _finally_ — drops his foot, as if he's Gene Kelly in bloody _Singin' in the Rain_.

Harry resumes a somber walk over and it takes far too long, so Draco meets Harry halfway in the middle. Which Draco only does because he doesn't have all day — _he_ is on _holiday_. When they do reach each other, Harry takes a healthy step back and doesn't break eye contact. It's unnerving.

"You know, when you look at me with those big wide eyes, Potter," Draco laughs. "It makes it really easy for me to probe your mind."

Harry smirks. "I'm actually trying to intimidate you because I don't like you very much and would prefer if we walk away _not _having seen each other."

Draco barks an ugly laugh rasped in his sweat and coil. Disgusting. "Well consider me frightened. You know, the only reason Snape was able to Legilimens the heck out of you was because you were always staring him down like a total git."

"Ah shit," Harry grunts for the second time. "Well — not a word to anyone, okay?"

Before Draco can get a word in, because _believe me, Potter. I don't want to say a thing but I'm going to come back to the Ministry and people will ask questions, like Draco! You are so gaunt! WHY, WERE YOU RUNNING YOUR WHOLE BLOODY TIME IN IRELAND?!_, Harry swaps the wands faster than a card trick and books it back to the far-off.

Draco's long arm flies through the air like a fishing line and gently — not harshly as per his character — _gently_ grabs Potter's shoulder. "Why are you running around like a headless fool?"

"I — I — I — " Harry gasps in racking breaths. " — I dunno."

Draco paces to Harry's other side since evidentally the man has no manners and won't turn around to face him, and he grabs Potter's other shoulder. Very firm. Even under the shoulder pads, Draco can feel the taut muscles. He tries to look into Potter's eyes but he gets distracted. That wide brown neck shines with sweat, Adam's Apple shaking with each gasp for air.

"Malfoy — " Harry manages to say. " — I'm — I'm having a panic attack."

Draco's jaw clamps tight and he suddenly feels very panicked himself. His face flushes and he looks for help, back arching for additional height. He begins to squeak "_Help_" when Harry grabs him by the cloak. "Malfoy, for Christ's sake, it's not like I asked you to deliver my child. Just like hang out with me and rap for a second."

"Rap," Draco repeats, nodding rapidly. He gently — again —_ gently_ guides Harry down to a trash can lid to sit on. Draco forgets himself and kneels in the mud to talk to him. "You sure it's a panic attack, mate?"

"Of course," Harry's wet lips slap together. He gestures at his scar. "I know my signs. I got this — er — psychpsymantiwhatsit with this dumb thing — and — and — oh fuck. Oh fuck. I fucking fucked up..."

Draco's eyes narrow. He smirks even though he shouldn't. "Do — do you go to therapy, Potter?"

Potter looks at him very crossly. "No. I _used_ to. For too long I think."

"Ah, I only ask because Parkinson keeps telling me I ought to go and I'm not sure I see — "

"Oh fuck off!" Harry cries out. "This isn't about you. I know you and me have a _thing_ but can we just talk like normal people?"

Draco frowns like a cartoon character. "I'm sorry who are you again?"

"Malfoy…" Harry grumbles.

"Fine. What is it, Potter?"

Harry takes in a deep breath. Cracks his head against the walls to make sure no one else is listening in and hastily throws up a ward of all things. As the magic wafts through, Draco feels a shiver run up his spine. He looks back at Harry. "What?"

"I ran away."

"Ah."

Neither speak for some time. Harry looks up, teeth clenching, resisting the words that are puffing his face so much. "I panicked and — "

"Potter, you don't have to — "

"I do," Harry sighs. "I — Malfoy — I'm — I'm — I'm just fucking tired of it all."

"Tired…?"

"Of fighting! I thought the bloody war was over when we killed Voldemort. But there's so many Death Eaters still out there. I mean, it's been _eight years_!"

Draco flinches.

"_Eight years_! And it is _still_ up to Harry bloody Potter to save the day."

"Do you not like saving the day?"

Harry grimaces as if Draco just said the most horrible thing he could have. Knowing Draco's luck, now that he's a Muggle _ally_, the most heinous things he tends to say are usually unintentional as opposed to his formerly precociously malicious self.

Harry points at the air wildly, "I _like_ saving the day. I — I get this rush when I do it. But — I mean — why me? Do you know much I've seen? I'm twenty five and I'm already — oh forget it, Malfoy."

"Believe me, I'd love to, Potter," Draco cocks his head. "But if I'm _this_ tense when someone eventually asks me to deliver a child, I ought to have some experience with dealing with traumatic shit like this. So hit me. What is it?"

Harry blinks a few times and notices how wide Draco's teeth are, how they stick out from his lips when he's excited about something. It's….endearing?

Harry sucks in a deep breath. "The only reason I have to do any of this is because some crazy old man decided that some random prophecy meant _me_. It could have been someone else."

Normally, Draco would quip and make some kind of dig at Longbottom, ever the easy target, but he decides against it. He actually bites his tongue before speaking. "You know Potter. Sometimes I ask myself if I'm doing enough. And the way I gauge that is I ask myself this….is _this_ what I'd be doing if I were born to a different family? Or am I still — erm — _tainted_."

Harry's brow furrows and his lips silently repeat the words. " — different fami—what? Like what? If I was — Harry Crabbe? Disgusting."

Draco shakes his head. "What the fuck — no! It's a metaphor, Potter!"

"Oooooooh…" Harry promptly deflates, lying flat against the cement. Draco follows him, leaning deep into his elbows like he's at a sleepover. Harry continues, "You're asking if I'd still be _here_ if Voldemort didn't pick me….that's kind of a silly question innit?"

"A little. But it makes me feel pretty damn good about being the only Auror with my — ahem — background."

"Sure." Harry stays very still.

"You done panicking?"

"I think so."

"Great, so please do _me_ a favor, Potter, and sit back before we start braiding each other's hair."

Harry rolls his eyes and creaks back up, elbows resting on his knees. Draco sits besides him and quickly shuffles a few inches back. Draco coughs into his fist before leaning forward. "Now in regards to this Death Eater — I wouldn't be too worried about him. He's a low tier grunt. No self-respecting Death Eater — "

Harry snorts and then suddenly gets a very suspicious look on his face. Draco doesn't like that shit so he ignores it.

" — would ever wear Muggle clothing like that and if they're not even bothering with wizards like us — they _must_ me worried about actually having success in killing people and….Potter! Stop spacing out. God, could you please remind me again how you got so many Outstandings on your OWLss?"

Harry shuts his gaping mouth and says, "What? Ah, anyways. Question: Did you come here to find me?"

Draco bristles and sticks his nose in the air. "No! I'm on _holiday_! And I'm only here for the _Ring of Kerry!_"

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. "So you're telling me you're working on _my_ case — "

" — your _abandoned_ case — "

" — and came out here to find me — "

" — while on holiday, yes."

"Wow."

"I know. Sometimes I surprise even myself."

Harry nods along and breaks eye contact, closing and opening his eyes as if he was making sure he was on the right plane of reality. "Bloody Hell," he murmurs when he finds Draco still there. "Listen — you _can't_ tell anyone I'm here."

"Wait...what do you mean?"

Harry's teeth grind back and forth. "_I'm a deserter,_" he whispers.

"Um." Draco isn't sure if this is another prank or not.

"The only other people who know are Ron and Hermione…"

"What of Ginerva?" Draco snaps quickly.

"Ugh, don't say Ginerva, and get with the times, Malfoy. We broke up a long time ago. Don't you read tabloids?"

Draco pales at the thought because — _he_ — _**he**_doesn't know something? Preposterous! Draco is very well-read! Why, just the other night he read a book that had nothing to do with magic! It was about these two guys, erm, one of them's big the other's small, and they...bugger.

"I'm kidding, Malfoy. It's kinda fun giving you a hard time considering how we were in school but seriously, I'm — just living as a Muggle. I don't want to be involved in magic anymore."

These were words.

But that was about as far as it went for Draco. He stews in silence.

Harry shrugs. "It's like I said — I can't handle being an Auror. It's draining and I can't fight foreve. Honestly, I had enough after the war and this is just so much worse because these people we go after Malfoy? They're as crazy as _he _was, but they're just normal people! Voldemort had the snake thing going on so it was easy to like — disconnect but...God. And everyone just won't leave me alone…."

Draco spaces out because he wonders if Harry will ever stop talking. He's already prepared his next line.

"...like if I do anything less than stellar, people act like I'm a total burnout. So I have to keep doing — crazy shit. To keep my fucking job and reputation. Because people expect great things from me, and oh God, I get questions about politics too!" Harry matches eyes with Draco finally. "All the time! I hate it! It makes me mad! I can't — politics are dumb, fucking — ah shit. What's up Malfoy?

Draco hisses and his jaw almost lengthens in his malice. "Potter, _what are you talking about?_"

"Um," Harry stammers. "I'm talking about why how I buggered off from the Aurors and have the most amazing life now."

"In a pinstripe suit?"

Harry checks himself out and looks up with a bit of an irresistible grin. "Of course."

"What are you, daft? You look like the bloody Muggle killer in that stupid thing. That's the only reason I went after you."

Harry's jaw plummets like a puppet's. "Ah shit. I didn't think of that."

"Unfuckingbelievable," Draco clips. "As for your desertion, _no_. You're coming back with me."

Harry frowns. "Why?"

Draco's actually sweating from stress! No running at all! Just — aaaaaaah!

He stammers, "I don't fucking know! You're the one with a moral compass."

Harry is nonplussed. "Apparently not. Listen — I'm a fucking — "

" — fuckstick," Draco finishes.

"I'm a fuckstick? Damn. I know it's not the best thing I've ever done — but I killed Voldemort, right? I journeyed on the Mystical Quest and found all seven of the things you need to destroy before you kill him. That counts for something right?"

Draco raises an eyebrow very high. "Are you trying to tell me that the Dark Lord was just a fucking video game boss? Oh, forget it — _Harry_. You're coming with me."

Harry's eyes widen because Draco saying Harry — heck, the posh boy won't even say _Hairy_ to keep his record unmistakably clean — _is a big deal_. "Right. Okay."

Draco leers and leans in. Almost nose to nose with the boy. "Just like that, eh?"

"Just like that," Harry shrugs. "You want me to be honest, _Draco?_"

"Oh God," Draco reaches up and grabs the back of his neck like it just suffered a spasm. "I think that word is jynxed when it comes from your mouth."

"Ha ha," Harry drawls. Draco doesn't like that very much either. Drawling is his thing! The nerve. "I'll tell you why I'm going with you. It's because I have no fucking idea what I'm doing anymore and if _Draco Lucius Malfoy_ — of all people — is asking me to come back...

….well then I bloody well ought to."


	3. Gregory Goyle's Great Idea

Draco _wishes_ he were running.

Harry ordinarily would too but Kingsley Shacklebolt's dead eyed stare is so unnerving that Harry's mind is left as fuzzy as television set that Uncle Vernon or Dudley would kick.

Kingsley's large fingers roll up and down in his closed fists. His low voice booms in the cramped office. "So you're telling me...that the Dark Wizard we've been chasing for months now...challenged Harry to a game of Quidditch...as part of his devious master plan...and it took Harry _several_ _weeks_ to find the Snitch…."

"Yeah it flew out of bounds," Harry slips in real quick.

Kingsley blinks and looks at Harry like he's seeing him for the first time. He snorts with enough force to tumble a house of cards, and turns to Draco. Again, that twinkle in the eye.

Draco blanches; he abhors twinkling. Ever since an old man stood high on a tower and told him that he wasn't a killer. He hesitates, but still manages a snarl. "You're not seriously buying that are you?"

Kingsley looks up at the ceiling and mouths a few somethings. "Harry goes up against a lot of dark wizards who admittedly challenge him to play silly games."

"It's true," Harry smiles like this whole debacle is finally over.

But obviously it's not. Kingsley Shacklebolt is no fool. There's a _reason_ he was briefly the Minister of Magic following the war, and there us an even more pressing _reason_ that he willfully stepped down to become the Head of Aurors.

"Harry, you do realize we have vacation hours, right?" Kingsley offers thoughtfully.

Harry blinks. "What? We do?"

"Yes, I — wait. Are you being serious?"

Harry backs further into his chair. Brushes the sleeve of his robe against his nose. "Yeah."

"Harry," Kingsley frowns. "Damn man. Did HR never reach out to you?"

Draco and Harry say it together. "There's HR?!"

Harry looks at Draco with raised eyebrows. "Wait, but you were on vacation?"

Now both scary men are staring at Draco. Draco forces a laugh. "Well — I kinda just — erm — buggered off. _I told my team I was going!_...obviously."

"Mm," Kingsley thumbs his round chin. "I guess — hm. Okay so _officially_, you took a really long vacation and — HR botched it? Damn. I can't believe they didn't talk to you two. There's like — paperwork….probably. "

"Who's in charge of HR?" Draco raises an eyebrow.

Kingsley shrugs. "Fuck if I know. Okay, so now let's be serious. See Harry, your mistake was that you insinuated this wizard would make you play silly games to defeat him. _But! _Draco here — " Kingsley rounds on the long distance running champion. "Draco's been telling me that this dark wizard is likely a low tier goon."

Harry's face scrunches up. Right. Draco said something or other like that. "Right," he rasps. "Perhaps I should tell you the truth then."

Kingsley's lips clamp tight and he motions a very firm _No_. "I'm very fond of this inept HR angle. I'm also very _smart_ and could take a few guesses at what _really _happened, and Harry, what I can say is that I've been there. But you know under ordinary circumstances, this would warrant your pink slip. But. As you are a boy of _un_ordinary circumstances…"

Draco snorts.

Kingsley notices. "You gotta get over that jealousy, man. It's a bad look. Anyways, you're good, Harry, is the point. Just — don't do it again."

"Right."

"Mm," Kingsley nods. "Now, this case is still something I want you on, Harry — I need you to go back to Ireland. Understood?"

Harry pales a bit. "Yes."

"And don't wear pinstripes again, it looks stupid," Kingsley grins. "Draco, you will be accompanying him."

"No!" they both shout.

Kingsley rolls his eyes. "Harry — I need someone out there to hold you accountable. Draco — you've already made some progress on the investigation." They both lean forward to argue but Kingsley silences them with one scathing look. "Harry, you need to learn how to trust other people, and Draco — you're full of shit about your _vacation_."

Draco pales and Harry nudges the posh boy. "He totally is."

Kingsley doesn't respond, just starts looking through paperwork again. Harry doesn't catch on right away, so it's Draco that has to hoist him to his feet. "Let's go, Potter," he snips.

"Wait!" Kingsley shouts, and the two boys freeze, Draco's arm still holding Harry's forearm. Draco catches the faux pas and clamps his hands behind his back. Like a butler or something. Something _civilized_, is the point. Kingsley continues, "That Snitch thing was a bold-faced lie and I don't know what to believe now — did Voldemort really make you play silly games to defeat him?"

Harry remembers the most gruelling scavenger hunt of all time; it didn't even have to be a scavenger hunt! That's like the worst part. But Voldemort had to be a total git about it. So Harry nods. "Yeah, that's a thing."

Kingsley shakes his head.

"What the fuck."

* * *

"Malfoy, I don't want to do this."

"What? Actual detective work?"

Harry considers that. He's used to just running into rooms with deus ex machinas working in his favor. He shrugs. "Yeah, honestly."

Draco rolls his eyes, yet quickens the pace by a half-step so Potter won't see his smile.

Parkinson Manor, while not nearly as large and foreboding as Malfoy Manor, is far more kept after, and additionally — no peacocks, which is always a plus. Slick in the white marble that constructs the walls, the Parkinson have a clean record. Never quite took a side in either war and maintained their status, unlike certain Slytherins who put all their eggs in one basket.

House elves open the wide, elm doors and the two Aurors step into the foyer. Instantaneously, Harry gets chills. Just looking up at these winding staircases leading into windier corridors and into bedrooms larger than some people's apartments — it makes him mad. Rich people make Harry mad. Granted, Harry _is_ rich, he just doesn't spend his money on anything because he's sad.

Though he does give extraordinary amounts to all of the charities and nonprofits Hermione somehow manages to work for without any use of a Time Turner.

Ah fuck. Hermione! Right. Harry's back from the dead and he hasn't signalled Hermione and Ron. "Malfoy, hang on, I gotta owl Hermione and Ron — "

Malfoy turns back. "You can do it afterwards. Owling in front of my friends would be rude, Potter. They're not monsters."

"Yeah, well, I don't think we'll get along," Harry shrugs. "Slytherin and all."

Draco stops and pivots. "It's been eight years, Potter. God, do you even have any friends outside Gryffindor?"

Harry thinks about that. Hm. There is Luna. Although he hasn't really seen her much lately, especially now that she's dating Ginny. He fucked up as a boyfriend and is sure that Ginny and Luna probably hate him now. Or something. Oof. He misses them though. "No," he shrugs.

"God," Draco scoffs. "Don't mention that to them, they'll make fun of you and shit."

"Too late," a cold voice drawls from wide doors that at first appeared to be closed. "Who would have thought that of all the students it's _Harry Potter_ that wound up being the bigot?"

Oh no. Harry recognizes that voice. He doesn't like this person very much at all, so he instinctually readies his wand. He drags his feet, but Draco drags him harder, and for some reason, Harry doesn't mind Draco touching him on the arm like that, so his boots release their hold on the tiled floor.

The living room is very quaint. Almost entirely coated in carpeting and woolen blankets, the fireplace tosses a dance of yellow and orange across the walls. Pansy Parkinson sits on the couch, legs swung over one of the armrests, like some sort of whiny, petulant prince that's been first in line for the throne since he was in diapers. Her skirt slides down her thighs, revealing far too much, and she smirks without taking her eyes off the book. Across the room sits Gregory Goyle, who hulks over a book himself, his eyes screwed up in deep concentration.

"Ahem!" Draco coughs with more theatrics than Ollivander.

Gregory looks up and with the same thespian air, smarmily says, "Oh. Didn't hear ya come in. Why don't you two take a seat?" He gestures to a blank space behind him, fingers slipping from the novel which promptly slaps shut. "Merlin's beard, no! I've lost my place in _War & Peace_. I suppose I'll have to read it all over again. You've read _War & Peace,_ 'aven't you, Potter?"

Harry frowns. What is he supposed to say that?

Draco shakes his head. "Fuck off, Greg, you didn't read a word of that. Pansy told you that Potter was coming and you just wanted to impress him."

Greg doesn't even skip a beat. "Rightio, Draco. So Potter. You impressed? I'm an educated man now."

Harry still doesn't know what to say to that.

"You don't have to feign academia, Greg. Harry's already a dolt," Draco drawls, lazily twirling his wand, two of the sofas floating over to make a nice little circle with the other two. He takes a seat. Harry doesn't.

Pansy looks up from her book and raises an eyebrow. "Draco, I don't like this very much."

"I know, but Shacklebolt's making us do this. Potter! Come on."

Harry rolls his eyes and takes a seat, immediately having to deal with Gregory shoving a hand into his chest. Harry slips as far back into the sofa as he can and crooks his elbow to his stomach so he can properly shake hands with Gregory. "You want me to call you Gregory or Goyle?"

"Ooh," Gregory purses his lips. "I do quite like being Greg. Draco started calling me that after Crabbe bit the dust."

Harry blanches.

"Don't look glum, 'arry," Greg puts a massive paw on Harry's shoulder. "My best friend died trying to kill you, and here you are. Still alive and a total badass."

"Th-thank you?" Harry says.

"Take the compliment, Potter," Draco snaps, elbows clicking onto his thighs, hands rubbing his temple. "Greg only says things he's totally sincere about."

Parkinson groans and finally swings her legs to the floor, flattening her skirt, though it barely makes a difference. "Yes. It's very annoying. It makes for poor conversation hence why I'm _actually_ reading War & Peace. It's _abhorrently _dull."

"'Oy, don't make fun of me," Gregory frowns which at first Harry believes to be mock offense but then realizes that's just Gregory's general demeanor. "You don't want me to cast Fiendfyre and not only risk your life but all of ours, eh? Innit that right, 'arry?"

Harry's eyes widen because holy shit that's a lot to parse. He feels so uncomfortable he laughs and Gregory laughs at him laughing and claps him on the back.

Draco is astonished. "You find that funny, Potter?!"

Harry cocks his head dramatically to the left. "Honestly, yeah. I can't make any jokes about the war at work. Everyone gets mad at me."

"Ooh! War jokes!" Gregory leans in, all giddy. "Tell us a war joke!"

"Um…." Harry says. "It — it kinda comes naturally. I'm not like a stand-up comedian or anything."

"Ooh!" Gregory claps his hands. "Well take your time then."

"So Gregory. Pansy," Draco snips. "You're aware of the rogue Death Eater in Ireland."

"Oh goodness, no," Pansy drawls, her jaw dragging even lower than Draco's does when he drawls. "The news is so _droll_, don't you think?"

"Yes," Harry says quickly and it actually catches Draco off guard. They exchange a look.

"Have you — " Draco stares daggers at Gregory. " — heard anything?"

Gregory thumbs his nose and looks away.

"Gregory, fuck that," Draco rolls his eyes. "Talk."

Gregory shakes his head and Draco growls, leans forward and snatches him by the square chin and looks deep into his eyes. "_Legilimens."_

Draco remains there for a few seconds, eyes widening as they burrow deep into Gregory's mind. And then he droops down and rubs his temple. "Fuck Gregory. Either you're an amazing Occulemens or your mind is just a white void."

"I'd say the latter," Gregory punches his chest with pride.

"Merlin," Pansy snaps with the slightest hint of emotion. "Draco. What's gotten into you?"

"I think I did," Harry says before Draco can respond. "He doesn't want to do the case with me."

"Nor does he," Draco points out.

Harry almost affirms it but thinks better of it and looks to Gregory. "'oy Gregory. I'll tell you a funny joke if you tell me about your dad. What's he up to?"

"Ooh, you got me there, Potter," Gregory rubs his hands together. "M' dad went to Azkaban after the war, but the prison filled up right quick so they let him and Crabbe's dad off early. They're both pretty daft, ya know?"

Draco nudges Harry's elbow. "_Their dads are just like them._ Though — I haven't seen your father around in a while actually, Greg."

Greg blinks. "Oh, yeah. Dad and my dead friend's dad had a falling out I guess. Had nothin' to do with Fiendfyre, I think. He's been pretty sad about it. I told him he could hang out with us but it didn't go over so well."

Draco narrows his eyes. "The three of us will need to vote on issues like that — incorporating new people into the group is risky. Hmph. So they had a fight…"

"Yeh. Dad's not the killer guy though; see, he's always home crying, thinking about Crabbe."

Harry blinks. "Crabbe? Why's he thinking about Crabbe?"

Draco shakes his head. "Crabbe's father's name is _Salvatore_, Greg. C'mon."

"Rightio, Draco. Now Potter. Tell me a joke."

Harry gulps something down. "Ah….._fuck_."

Draco slaps a hand to his forehead, but Pansy and Gregory both lose their shit. Gregory actually wanders off because of the tears in his eyes.

"Great. Thank you for the icebreaker, Potter. Pansy. You got anything for us?"

Pansy flutters her eyelashes. On one hand, she does not enjoy conversations that will allegedly _move things forward_ because life is so horrible, oh who cares. But on the other hand, she does love being the center of attention. "Salvatore has been at all the dinner parties I've attended. He's quite powerful in the Wizengamot I've heard. But the community has been rather quiet, lately."

Draco nods and continues with his line of questioning, rattling off people and families that have always been background noise to Harry. Every once in a while a name will come up like _Theodore Nott_ and Pansy will say a bit more than necessary, rambling on about some faux pas made at a fundraiser, and Draco actually encourages this dialog. He lowers his quill and looks at her with a smile.

These Slytherins are a _community_.

It makes Harry feel awful lonely, so he takes out his own quill and pretends to take notes off of what Pansy's saying, but instead pens his letter for Ron and Hermione.

_Oy. Sorry. I'm back from the dead. Bumped into Malfoy and blew my cover. Hope this gets to you before Rita Skeeter's nonsense does. _

_I'm okay though. You two were right. Running was a bad call. So I'm back for a little bit, and then I think we're going to Ireland to stop this Death Eater. _

_Wanna hit the pub soon? _

_Harry_

_PS. Ron, no one liked the pinstripe suit you picked out for me. _

A meaty hand claps Harry on the shoulder, jerking him back to reality. Gregory passes over him and falls into his seat, a little glint in his eye, his cheeks all rosey because he totally just read Harry's letter. "'ow come no one liked your pinstripes, 'arry? Pinstripes are cool."

Draco looks over with a raised eyebrow. "Perhaps we should move on. This isn't really helping, though I appreciate the gossip, Pansy."

"Hold up, everyone!" Gregory decrees. "While I was taking a big shit, I had a brilliant idea."

Draco and Pansy both groan, but Pansy does it better. She presses her hand to her forehead and flops her body across the entire sofa. Draco frowns and looks to his former henchman. "Don't tell me it's the one where wizards just shit their pants and use magic to transport it — "

"No no," Gregory tutts. "This idea...is good. It has to do with your case. So there."

Everyone waits with bated breath. Except Pansy. She goes back to reading _War & Peace._

Pansy reads a full page of the massive tone before Gregory finally goes "Um."

"You fucking forgot it, didn't you?" Draco growls.

"...Yeh, Draco, could you — "

"Ugh, very well. _Legilimens._ Huh. Oh! Wow! Greg, I'm impressed, that's actually — Harry, Harry, listen to this."

Pansy's face jerks up from her book at the name _Harry_. Her flat mouth momentarily curls into something delighted.

Harry meets eyes with her and blushes a tad.

"Greg's thinking that wizard culture is very nuanced," Draco explains with some glee. "We've got trolls and house elves to win social justice for, in addition to a whole slew of politics. So oftentimes we put Muggles into one singular category, but Muggles — have _identity politics._ Though we're the same species, we don't really do that. _But_ if this person is truly obsessed with Muggles, he's likely targeting what the Muggles call minorities. Like queers. And people of color. That sort."

Harry mulls that over; he's bisexual and he can distinctly remember coming out a bit later than some of the other Hogwarts kids, mostly due to his traumatic Muggle background. Being brown didn't help very much either.

So Harry leans in. "So you're saying we should do a stakeout at a gay bar?"

"Exactly! Yes! We should — " Cough cough. " — consider that. There's other community spaces of course."

"Right."

"...Yes. But a gay bar is the most _obvious_ and...erm..."

"...seeing how our target is allegedly kinda dumb and maybe a bit on the nose…"

Pansy rushes forward and throws both arms around the boy's shoulders, huddling them in with an ear to ear grin. She cackles and leaps back onto the couch, landing into the proper poise of a lady. "If you two want to go to a gay bar in Ireland, you should just say that. I'm sure you boys will find the crushes of your dreams."

Both of their faces go so red they are thankful that their dead eyes stares are focused solely on Pansy.

"I would attend, being a lesbian myself, but I regretfully cannot stand other women, cursing me to be eternally single, hence Goyle being my platonic partner for life." Her wrist limply falls past the armrest and Gregory very gently takes her hand, rubbing his thumb across her palm. It's very — domestic.

"Talk about women against women," Harry mutters, turning back to Draco. "Okay. So a gay bar?"

Draco gets up, unbuttoning his collar. "I elect to go home first so I can change. It'll be beneficial to my cover if I — "

"_Draco._"

Draco pouts and falls back into place. "Alright, fine. I don't need cover; I'm already gay. Happy?"

Harry smiles for a reason that has nothing to do with their mission. "Yes."


	4. Oh, How the Wine Talks!

Draco's face wrinkles in disgust as the frothy yellow fills up the hefty pitcher. Harry shakes his head mischievously at the sight, noting that Draco leaves the bartender with his debit card. Before Draco can take the pitcher, Harry swoops past and snatches the pitcher from the bar, already holding his own drink with his left hand.

"You're not drinking that," Harry laughs at the scandalized Draco. "Get what you actually want you posh fuck."

By the time Draco returns to the table with the froofiest drink Harry's ever seen, Harry's already downed enough of his beer and Draco's former that he can pour both into the same glass. "So you got yourself a debit card then?"

"What?" Draco scoffs, "Oh. Um. Yes. I did."

"What's that about?"

Draco furrows his brow. "Do you really want to talk about this?"

"Of course I do," Harry shrugs.

"Fine. Yes, Potter. I have a bloody debit card, and a credit account too if you wanted to know."

Harry can't wipe his smirk away. "Your wallet's awful thin."

"Merlin's Beard, you're — "

Harry flamboyantly gestures to the Muggle crowd around them.

Draco rolls his eyes and corrects himself. "_Jesus Christ_, is it?"

Harry nods.

"_Jesus Christ_, Potter. Ever the nosey boy. _Yes_, I have a bank account and because _I_ am a Malfoy, I assure you that it's quite big, and _no_, I don't use cash. Now, let's — "

"Why?" Harry snaps before Draco can move onto a different topic.

"Because — Muggle money is — confusing."

"No it's not," Harry leans as far back as he can with one arm lazily draped across the table. He lifts a pitcher to his mouth and looks past the brim. "Change my mind."

Draco considers it but ultimately: "I don't want to."

Harry's almost disappointed. Actually, not almost. _Very_. "You don't want to debate me?"

"No."

"Well then what are we supposed to do?"

Draco sips gleefully from his froofy concoction, knowing full well that Potter will be pissed off to see himenjoying something so vibrantly pink. "Dunno. I guess we could debate. If we want. But considering how we're adults now — " Harry grimaces; Draco pronounces adults like _add-ults_. Super weird. " — I figured we'd talk about work and things like that until our Death Eater friend struts on pass to kill some queer boy."

"Well that's no way to treat your date then," Harry smirks.

"What?! Date?!" Draco sputters, too stunned to call Harry's bluff with a proper _Legilimens._ "No! Potter, I might be gay but — oy! Where are you going?"

Harry turns around ten feet away from the table and flips Draco off. "I'm going to take a big shit — I'm hoping one of Gregory Goyle's Great Ideas hits me so we can talk about something interesting."

While Harry runs off to fill a bowl apparently, Draco positively _stews_ in resentment. He reaches over and snags his drink _that he paid for_ back to his person and drinks some of the beer. He immediately wretches and puts the blasted thing back, spinning the pitcher until the handle points to exactly where it previously was. A masterful play to be sure.

Draco doesn't really know what he's doing. Is it a date? He could go for one, it's been a dog's age since he's done this. But on the same token, it's _Harry Potter_. A boy he used to despise. So what he's been charming for the past 48 hours? Harry's always been charming. Doesn't stop him from being an absolute dipshit and if that is the case and Potter really is still a fool, well then shouldn't Draco not wasting his time dating him?

Or perhaps Potter was joking? Perhaps it's not really a _date._ Perhaps it's just part of their cover. Two undercover Aurors playing boyfriend. Great. Sounds like a scheme.

Draco sneaks a glance around the bar. It's mostly white gay men, not really his type. Reminds him too much of himself, you see. He's looking more for the queer type. The loosey goosey ones who use broader labels, _that_ is what Draco wants. Although he's not quite sure if he wants it for himself or from a partner. Being gay is confusing, but regardless, none of these white gay men qualify so he shan't grant them a second look followed by a _"Hey_."

Though perhaps that's preferable because it would get him out of this 'date' with Potter. Decisions, decisions. He could also go for a good fuck. He grumbles and throws an arm around the back of his chair, wondering if anyone at this bar is someone he knows. Highly doubtful. Draco doesn't really fraternize with Muggles — mostly because they're so boring. But as he surveys the masses of cises, he spots a familiar face and — oh dear.

Draco slams his head against the table to avoid this ol' so-and-so's sudden gaze into the crowd and bangs it hard. He rubs the pink crease across his forehead, blinking away tears, just as Potter returns. "_Harry!_" he whispers hoarsely, quickly crafting an over-the-top overbite and quite brilliantly mouthing the so-and-so's name to Harry.

Harry furrows his brow (because he's a dolt and probably sucks at charades) and scans the crowd, finding himself in the same pickle Draco was just in and ducks out of sight (also slamming his head). "That's a poor man's imitation, Malfoy," Potter grunts. "Why is Hermione here?!"

"Why would I know?" Draco spits. "Listen, let's go, I don't want Granger seeing us here together, it's not — "

"What? _That's_ your concern?" Harry frowns. "I'm concerned about Ron! They're married, you know. What's she doing at a gay bar?"

"Again Potter — why would I know?" Draco looks over his shoulder nervously. "Let's just fucking get — what are you doing, what is that?"

Harry looks up and bumps his head on the underside of the table, probably completely unaware that he looks like a total weirdo unraveling an invisibility cloak while clutching his head. "I'll pretend to not be here, you talk to her."

"I don't want to talk to her," Draco whines. "Is this how you usually react to surprises?"

"What?"

"With the cloak."

"Ah," Harry grunts as he spreads the bunched up cloth across his arms. "Yeah, I think so."

"Hello Harry. Draco."

The boys' heads both thud against the table's underbelly, and when they finally wrench themselves free, Hermione is sitting alongside them, beer in hand. Dressed business formal, wavy locks clipped behind her head, she blushes at the sight of them. "I got your letter, Harry. I didn't realize that you were being accompanied by Draco now — "

"It's _Malfoy_, you filthy mudblood-bloodtraitor-whathaveyou!" Draco sneers playfully, though it doesn't read well. "Um. My father will hear about this and all that…?"

Hermione struggles to keep her mouth closed while her eyes widen.

Harry slips in between the two. "He's making a little joke."

Hermione's face scrunches up and she looks to Draco who nods in the affirmative. "Ah. Well. Hello anyways. Are you two — "

"Working," the two boys say together with the same cadence. They both cast a look and it's Harry that continues, "Stakeout. What are you doing here, though?"

Hermione blinks. "Oh — you don't think that I'm — no no. Ha. Ron knows I'm here."

"So…." Harry grins. "Are you…?"

"Bisexual," Hermione says proudly, sticking her nose in the air and swishing her hair. "Just came to terms with it in therapy. But I don't have many friends in the community, so my therapist suggested I come to a place like this and maybe make some queer friends. Are you gay, Draco?"

"Huh?" Draco winces. "Oh. Uh. Yes. Quite flaming actually."

"Great, so that's one new queer friend," Hermione grins. "Just be nice to me. It's awful loud here, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry nods curtly. "Not the best place to make friends, 'mione. Unless you want them _with benefits_." And at this, he raises his eyebrows.

"_Harry!_" Hermione playfully slaps Harry's arm. "You are right though. A coffee shop would be a better setting. But I don't know of any queer coffee shops."

"Is that a thing? Sounds boring," Draco frowns.

"Of course there are, Draco. While our community has famously used bars as a sort of safe space, sobriety is a thing for some people, and not everyone is of age to go to a bar," Hermione says all the while giving Draco the most _how do you not know this?_ look he's ever seen from her. As if he didn't feel insecure enough. "But many of the alternate places in the scene don't generate a lot of business, so they often have odd hours."

Draco frowns. After all of his bigotry, he kind of wants a gold star for being gay so he can call it a day, but once again he's back to feeling completely and utterly disconnected from everything. "Does this make me a bad gay?" he asks.

Harry begins to laugh, but stifles it fast when Hermione puts her hand on top of Draco's, and looks at him with wide, pleading eyes. "No Draco, you're not a bad gay. We're all still learning."

Draco looks to Harry for some sort of — validation? He's not sure what he's looking for.

"Honestly Hermione," Harry says. "You probably know more about the scene than anyone here. Gay bars are about as far as I go."

"Oh but there are so many wonderful events and groups that you're missing out — " Hermione stops and censors herself. " — sorry, time and place. Draco, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts. How are you?"

"Erm," Draco replies. "I'm alright. Awful sweaty lately. How have you been?"

"Uh — fine, I suppose."

Harry looks between the two of them, calculating what next move is here. "So Draco. Tell us why you became an Auror."

Ooh, now _this_ is something Draco can talk about. He just about rubs his hands together in excitement, and Hermione slides her chair next to Harry's in anticipation.

* * *

Harry misses most of Draco's story, which is okay because it's not exactly the most original. He finds himself more focused on Draco's appearance. Like — he didn't know that Draco's hair could be so _loose_. In the posh boy's drunken stupor, the platinum blond cowlick sticks to his rather large forehead from excess perspiration. The blazer is off, the tie is loosened down to the chest, and the sleeves are rolled up. It makes Draco look like some sort of over excited businessman who works unheard of hours.

It's very attractive. How long has Draco been attractive? It's weird — so much has changed since the war but this is one of the first times Harry really feels the fact that it's been eight years.

Hermione notes that Harry thinks Draco is attractive, and sort of wing mans for him. Harry feels bad about it because Hermione's already married, so she can't really be wing manned anymore. Though Harry _did_ toil for them back in the day.

It's a murky bag.

Anywho.

Harry narrows his eyes and makes sure that he at least got the bullet points: Draco became an Auror out of guilt. He felt horrible for taking his parent's word as law, and despite his relative innocence in many of the common Death Eaters tactics, he is still accountable. From the kidnapping of Ollivander, Luna, and Griphook. Or for the murder of Albus Dumbledore.

"Oy, Draco, Dumbledore was planning on getting himself killed, don't feel so bad about it," Harry slurs past a raised glass.

"What?" Draco squawks, apparently in the middle of talking about something else. "Why would he do that? The old loon."

"Dumbledore planted Snape to kill him because — because — ah fuck," Harry looks at the ceiling as if the convoluted whodunnit of the Elder Wand was written up there. "Because the Elder Wand — which Dumbledore had I guess — would be transmitted to Snape so like — even if you didn't plan all that shit with the Vanishing Cabinet, Snape still would have killed Dumbledore."

Draco blinks dumbly. "Well — um — I'm still accountable I think because — because if — if I hadn't conspired, maybe Dumbledore wouldn't have — "

"Nah, Dumbledore figured all this stuff out a long time ago."

"Fuck. Bugger. Fuck bugger," Draco wipes his nose. "Don't undercut me, Potter. I was just explaining how I formed an unlikely friendship with Shacklebolt."

Harry moves to interrupt but Hermione takes his hand. "Harry, Draco's done a lot of hard work getting better. You should hear him out."

Harry withdraws. Swallows something strong. He had no idea some of the other Aurors were so motivated. Had he known, maybe he would have passed some of his cases off to Draco. Merlin knows Harry takes on way too many cases all on his lonesome. "So you _like_ being an Auror then?"

Draco cocks his head to the side, as in _What kind of question is that?_ He licks his lips in careful consideration and processes that. Finally, "Yeah. I mean, I hate the general attitude at the Ministry, but I enjoy the work I suppose. It's — erm — fun."

"That's lovely Draco," Hermione beams from ear to ear and takes Draco's hand, and it's then that Harry notes how bright Hermione's cheeks are. "I'm so happy for you."

Draco smiles to Hermione, _just_ to Hermione, and it takes Harry off guard. It's weird to see him act so _normal_ after everything that's happened between the three of them.

The smile transfers all of itself into the corner of Draco's mouth, the part that usually snarls, and his eyes get icy cold. "And you Potter? You happy?"

Harry frowns. "I don't want to get into it. You both already know how I feel."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Draco knows you hate being an Auror?"

Draco feigns embarrassment. "Yes, Granger. I've learned an awful lot about Harry Potter in the past forty eight hours. Hmph."

Harry's too flummoxed to respond so Draco rolls his eyes and moves along. "Oh well. Granger, how about you?"

Draco looks to Hermione and for some reason Harry feels guilty.

"What about me?" Hermione blushes.

"Therapy? Work? The weather?" Draco suggests with a shrug. "Take your pick."

"Oh — oh, yes. I see a therapist. She's lovely really."

"I just don't see how therapy can be helpful," Draco says quickly. "Talking about issues just makes them worse."

"Draco, that's highly problematic," Hermione chastises. "You know — we did all fight in a _war_. I think it's okay for us to need someone to talk through our problems with, don't you think?"

Draco pricks up his chin. "Yes, I do think — why do we say that by the way? _Don't you think_? Of course I think you prat, what do you think I am? Stupid?"

"Draco, you're dodging my question," Hermione purses her lips.

Harry blurts out something that's been on his mind for some time now. "How do you make it work, Hermione? I mean, you already know I've tried therapy, but I just — I don't know how to communicate with them. All the good ones are Muggles and we can't really...for the most part. Y'know?"

"Um….one moment please." Hermione flushes and takes a big gulp from her drink. Harry and Draco eyeball her while her throat wavers from the roof raising amount of liquor, her cheeks only getting redder the longer she chugs. They both gape when she slams the mug down into the table, and sloppily wipes the beer splash off her lips with her sleeve. "ANOTHER!" she decrees and there's a couple of _YAAAAAS QUEENS_ and that sort in the background. Hermione rolls her sleeves up past the elbows and folds her arms under her chin. "You want to know how I get good insight from my therapist without telling them I'm a wizard? Because it's incredibly embarrassing."

"Yeah, it'd help, thanks," Harry says. "Seeing how all my problems are wizardly."

"Same," Draco chirps.

"Well," Hermione leans in and motions for the boys to get closer. "What I do...is I tell her everything about my life through the lens of someone else. See, my therapist thinks I'm a Dungeon Master."

Both Harry and Draco furrow their brows. It takes them a second, until Harry snaps back in. "Oh! Oh! I remember this from the playground sort of — um — _Dragon Dungeons_?"

"Close enough," Hermione says wryly. "And I'm writing this campaign about a sad girl with PTSD who's fought in a magical war and is struggling not to burn out as an activist. It's all I talk about really."

"Wow," Draco grins. "Potter, you oughta try that. Especially since you revealed to me that Voldemort was just like some video game boss. It'll be very believable."

Stunned, Hermione turns to Harry. "You told him about the Horcruxes too? Harry, you're worse than Hagrid right now, these things are _secrets_ — "

" — yeah Harry," Draco flushes, his blush so starkly contrasted with the pale of his skin. "What are you doing, dumping all your secrets onto me?"

Harry runs his hands through his hair. "Fuckity fuck fuck. Leave me alone. I obviously need a therapist."

"You're just realizing that _now_?" Hermione laughs. "Harry, don't be so dramatic. It's okay. We all grow at our pace."

"Oof," Harry grunts. "Could we slide the conversation back to Malfoy? I can't take the heat."

"Okay!" Hermione pipes and looks to Draco like Rita Skeeter might. "Why Legilimency? It's not exactly the easiest job to stomach."

"We already went through this," Draco scoffs. "My redemption arc and all that."

"Yes, but you didn't talk about Legilimency. You must interrogate a lot of Dark Wizards and learn a lot of abhorrent things," Hermione says softly. "Your family's hardly ever worked. I don't see why you don't just dump your funds into a few charitable causes and call it there. Wouldn't that save your name without risking your hide?"

Draco thinks about that. "Well — yes. But — I don't know. I wanted to do more."

"I call baloney on that, Malfoy You don't just become an Auror on a whim," Hermione laughs playfully. "Unless you're Harry."

"Hey!" Harry chokes on his beer. "It wasn't a whim. It was like — destiny or summat like that."

"Mhm," Hermione leans back towards Draco. "So?"

"Fine, fine," Draco groans. "_Chapter Two:_ We left off with a young, gay Slytherin boy who just wanted to do the right thing, and wound up being an Auror. But because the questions never end, this dashing, debonair queen must decide on how he wants to fight evil Ahem." He clasps his hands together, drumming fingers while his face screws up to find the perfect start. "Aha! See, my parents always told me that perhaps one day The Dark Lord would rise again, and if he were to, I would need to kneel before him to put our family in good favor. Things of that nature. Of course they never expected it to happen in their lifetime — if they even did believe. It was probably just something for me to grow up on.

"So when The Dark Lord did rise, I was admittedly a little psyched out. Especially because I was in the perfect position to be a spy. I figured I'd be showered in praise and riches and of course, that turned out to be anything but. I was just so bloody scared all the time and the thing that really gets me is that it was nothing new. My parents had to have known that the Dark Lord was an impetuous child with colossal powers. But I grew up thinking he was going to save us and — Merlin, he did a number on me.

"Lots of purebloods like me grow up like this. So when I was figuring what I wanted to be as an Auror, I decided on Legilimency. Because — it's about finding the kernels of truth. If a Legilimens...erm, Legilimens'd — we really ought to work on our verb tenses for these spells — my parents beforehand, maybe I'd be someone else. Really, it all goes back to our schooling."

"Our schooling?" Harry interrupts.

"Yeah," Draco smirks. "Professor Umbridge may have been a total drag but — that whole _one mustn't tell lies_ thing? I'll never forget that — what are you doing?"

Harry spins the back of his hand around to face Draco which of course has those very words forever etched into the many layers of his skin. Immediately, the wonderful drunken colors of Draco's face drain away back to pure white.

Draco bites down on his words to make sure he gets it just right. "Potter, I-I'm sorry. I didn't know. I honestly didn't — "

CRASH.

Harry doesn't even hesitate and leaps into action, accidentally kicking the rest of the drinks over as he vaults across the table.

Draco and Hermione jolt up and quickly exchange eye contact.

"Hang back, Granger," Draco snips. "Me and Potter were actually on a stakeout. Evil Muggle killer."

Hermione shakes her head. "I read the news. Come on."


	5. Never Heard the Phrase You Are Fine

Harry is running… in the air apparently. It's quite confusing. Draco doesn't really get it.

By the time Draco and Hermione finally catch up with the rogue Auror, things have already been set into motion. White sparks fly, popping in the air all around Harry as he spins and kicks, seemingly defending himself from a barrage of spells assailing him from the left and right. He casts _Protego!_ after _Protego! _each spell holding him in the air a moment longer, giving the impression that he's dancing through the sky.

Well — not really dancing. Potter's got two left feet after all, didn't you see him at the Yule Ball? Oh, but Draco's just making light — he's really quite terrified.

Draco looks past the spectacle that is always Harry Potter, and squints, spotting a cloaked figure way down at the end of the vacant road, a hood tossed over his head (classic). He stands perfectly still, no spell casting at all. That doesn't seem right though, his statuesque poise compared to the myriad of spellwork implies great talent and Draco's theory (as you _should_ recall) is that their perp is a loony burnout, and Draco Malfoy is _never _wrong. (Mostly because he can see directly into people's minds.)

Draco searches and scans the area — Harry's still writhing, probably hasn't even noticed their arrival, and then Draco picks up on something. It's the way the _Protegos!_ arc around Harry, they only ward him on the left and right. It's then that Draco notices how Harry is centered in the alleyway, how it's almost like he's been strung up like laundry between the surrounding brick walls.

It's not spell after spell after spell, it's some of hex, or trap. Like those little darts that shoot the scary walls in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Without even following Point A to B to C, Draco goes straight to Z.

"_Confrigo!_" he shouts, casting a spell into the brick wall on Harry's right. The red light crackles and bursts, white sparks blasting from thin air like fireworks. Immediately, Harry's right flank opens up and his heels drag against the pavement, the _Protego!_ only warding him from one side now. Draco smiles because it's nice to be the hero for once and turns to Hermione, "Granger! The bloody wanker set up a trap with these walls — "

But Hermione must have caught onto Draco's plan the second Harry dropped because now there are _Confrigo! _sparks rippling on the left side. Now completely open, Harry charges down the streets without even a look at him or Hermione. But almost immediately he slides to a halt, his cloak whipping up from the torrent coming from his wand.

It's not your standard wizard's duel — more like freaking Dumbledore ganging up on a Squib. Harry's spells carry so much heft with them, spreading wide and tearing up anything in their path. It's so unlike what Draco remembers from their schooling. But perhaps it makes sense that the boy who specialized in patronuses and disarming people picked up a few hat tricks over the past few years. Regardless, while Draco is all for violence, this is actually a little unnerving. He almost wants to look away.

There's this shifting in the air that's rather odd. With each spell comes this claminess in Draco's chest. Similar to a Dementor honestly. Draco feels weaker, which doesn't make sense at all; Draco's not casting spells. Only Harry.

Magic takes so much gusto and stamina. You surrender part of yourself to each casting. You trust your skill will shape the spell into its intention, and that you'll be okay no matter what happens. Depending on the crowd you run with, you even have to give up some of your soul at times. But it's never anyone else's, just your own.

Draco checks to see if Hermione is feeling the same dread, and she does seem rather pale. Even her glowing cheeks dim, leaving behind an ugly red glow that looks like flushed blood. But Hermione is also focusing very intently on Harry, muttering something that is likely an incarnation under her breath. Draco almost wants to ask her what she's doing, but recognizes it's probably important.

It's then that Draco realizes he isn't contributing diddly donk to this battle. Right then.

_Snap!_

The cloaked man disappears. Harry screams something Draco wishes he didn't have to hear. Harry's spine snaps as loud as the Apparation and he jabs his arm through the air. A dusty yellow glow fills the air all around them, revealing a floating black dot zooming through the air. The glow falls, another _Snap!_ and the cloaked man re-materializes several yards higher and falls, but promptly vanishes.

Another spell from Harry and the villain reappears, even farther ahead now, shrinking into the distance fast. But he disappears. Harry cries out bloody murder and whirls a foot over his head and stomps it into the pavement.

_Boom!_

The dusty yellow flashes not just around them but throughout the whole city, making a dome along the perimeter.

Damn. That's how you do it then.

"Anti-Apparation Ward," Harry rasps as if he might pass out, a glimmer catching in his eye when he finally spots the black cloak among the night sky, but frowns when it catches onto a steel ladder apparently attached to the side of a building. Harry hits the ground running again.

"Harry!" Draco shouts, stepping forward. Harry is seriously starting to scare him now, especially with Harry panting more than a marathon runner. (Which Draco would know about — seeing how much running he's had to do because of Potter.)

Orange flares like fire splinter from the wand way off in the distance. Small though they may seem, it's a familiar spell that could ravage the whole city if unleashed. Harry again throws his whole body into the thrust of his wand and fires an _Expelliarmus!_ that lasers through the air and — oh ye Gods, Potter just has to be perfect at everything, doesn't he?

The villain's wand spins through the air, flying a distance that might actually be a world record if Hermione happened to have some measuring tape on her, and makes its target by soaring right to Harry's hand.

But Harry is too fixated on the clambering cloaked figure to notice that the wand's lost its orange flare and is now glowing a sickly green.

"Harry!" Draco shrieks again, tackling Harry out of the way, which is right when the flying wand fires out a spell that is unmistakably _Avada Kedavra_, the green just narrowly missing the two boys as they tumble to the ground.

"What the fuck, Malfoy," Harry seethes, rushing back to his feet and tumbling again as another _Avada Kedavra_ flies over. "Ah shit, I see your point."

Draco throws his back into the ground and cranes his neck to see the wand. It spins around, rolling across stone with each Killing Curse that bursts from either of its ends. He's never seen anything like it. "_Confrigo_!" His teeth smash together when the spell misses and another green light rips towards him. He rolls aside and tries again. Misses. Fuckity fuck they're going to get fucking killed fighting a fucking malfunctioning goddamn shit fuck wand.

Why didn't anyone tell them that wands could do that?! Draco has half a mind to go back to Diagon Alley and ask to speak with Ollivander's manager.

It's Harry that lands the _Confrigo!_ that splinters the wand into fragments, because he's Harry bloody Potter. Harry jumps to his feet again and dashes forward.

"Harry!" Hermione's the one to shrilly call his name this time. "Enough! You are going to severely hurt yourself if you keep pushing — "

Harry stops and for a second Draco thinks it's because he's listening. But as his neck snaps all about in the search for — something — it becomes so obvious that Harry's in his own little world right now. Maybe if Draco grabs his sleeve or something, he could reason —

"_Accio Dumpster_!" Harry cries hoarsely.

Dumpster? Tsch. That's too big, no way it'll — oh fuck.

That claminess hits Draco's throat again and it makes him want to keel over and die, it's just so much energy being sucked clean out of him. But still he manages to jump out of the way and dodge the Dumpster as it rolls across the pavement. It nearly plows over Harry who nimbly leaps onto its side, running against the roll until it stops moving and he can firmly plant his feet. "_WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!_" he screams.

"You're not serious are you — right. Who the fuck am I talking to right now?" Draco casts a wearying look over to Hermione as the Dumpster shakes itself into the air, and before either of the two can put a stop to it, the Dumpster rocks off into the distance like a fucking Firebolt.

Fucking Hell.

"Sorry about all that," Hermione pats Draco on the shoulder, breathing as harshly as he is. Which doesn't make sense. They barely did anything beyond freak out. Why are they both so tired? "Every time something like this happens, he acts like he's — well — you know."

Draco furrows his brow. "What about you though? No offense but earlier it looked like you were…" he pauses for emphasis, looking deep into her eyes almost threateningly. But he'd never do _that_ to Hermione. "...up to something."

"Ah, well," Hermione's blush from the alcohol returns. She rubs her face anxiously. "Harry always overdoes it because — again, _therapy_ — and perhaps you noticed but normal wizards can't do things like that. So — and if you want to throw a row at me over it I understand — but I was pooling our magic into him so he could at least pull it off."

"Doesn't that encourage him?" Draco wonders.

"Yes," she says, all prickly. "But it's better than him splinching himself — _or worse_."

CRASH.

Both brace themselves as debris shoots into the air, dusting up Draco's nice suit. When they both drop their arms from their faces, they find themselves face to face with a glowing stag. The creature's maw lowers and Harry's voice empties out, "_It just dawned on me that this is a Muggle area. Can you do me a solid 'mione and clean-up crew this?_"

The Patronus fades and Hermione remains very still for a long time. Draco furrows his brow. "Clean up crew?"

She turns and her face is so cold. "He means _Obliviate_."

* * *

"Hey you! You see anything suspicious!"

The flabbergasted Muggle gulps, clamping his jaw and shaking his head. He's anxious; he doesn't very much like being accosted by strangers. "I don't know nothin'! Lay off!"

"You liar!" Draco rasps, face wrinkled in disgust. "Come on then. Out with it. What did you see?"

"Nothing, sir! Nothing!" the Muggle yells. "Who are you anyways? Walking around asking if people saw anything suspicious! If I didn't know better, I'd say that's suspicious on its own!"

The tables turn and the Muggle is pointing at Draco now. Draco almost swats the hand away but thinks better of it, instead grabbing the man firmly by the shoulder and looking deep into his eyes.

"Draco," Hermione urges, but Draco shakes his head.

He hisses the word out loud by accident. "_Legilimens_."

The moment passes fast and Draco pulls away. "Rightio. You're good. Sorry about that."

"Now hold the phone," the Muggles growls, itching his head. "How do you know that I'm telling the truth? Did you use magic or something on me?"

Draco frowns. A little deeper than he should probably let on.

"Oh! It _was_ magic!" the Muggle shouts. "You used magic! You're — you're wizards! Magic is real! Holy moly — "

"Merlin's Beard, Draco," Hermione says under her breath.

Draco sputters something unintelligible so the Muggle once again takes the mic. "_Merlin's Beard?_ Oh! That's wizard talk! You're Wizards! Wow! Is Merlin your God — "

Hermione rolls her eyes. "_Obliviate_."

The word sounds so dark coming from her mouth, but nevertheless it works. The man's eyes fog up and that's that.

Moments later, they're passing through another underlit street, walking oddly close together.

"You're a horrible interrogator," Hermione shakes her head all of a sudden. "_Hey you! You see anything suspicious?_ Like come on now. Isn't this your livelihood?"

Draco blushes. "Well — I do sort of cheat at it with magic. If I was actually good at it, I'd be doing something else I'd imagine. And besides, that man was _suspicious_!" Draco twists in front of Hermione and throws his hands in the air. "He was low-key freaking out on us. He should of just spoken his mind."

Hermione raises an eyebrow, not at all thrown off by Draco's sudden animacy. "I'm on the side of the Muggle, sorry. I would be unnerved myself if someone in a dusty suit started pointing at me."

"It wasn't dusty when I got here," Draco snips. "Hm. I have an idea though. Let's be cops!"

They pass through the shadows and Hermione rolls her eyes when she hears the _pops!_, _whizzes!, _and _bang_s! of some serious spell making. When they strut under the next lamp, they're both in navy blue uniform, big helmets and all. Hermione suppresses a chuckle because this is definitely not helping their case any.

"If you had a long, droopy mustache, you'd really fit the part, Draco," Hermione smirks.

Draco shakes his head. "Ew, no. I'm not one of _those_ gays. Thanks for the help by the way. You really don't have to, so thank you."

"Ah," Hermione says dryly. "It's my lot in life to be clean-up crew, I think."

"He does this a lot then?" Draco frowns. He doesn't know why he's asking. He has a _crush_ on Potter, not a damn infatuation. He shouldn't be trying to ruin his dream boy already.

"Yes," Hermione purses her lips. She's unearthly calm aside from the twitch in her left eye, the fold cleaving across her round cheek.

Draco decides not to push it. "You want to swap duties for a bit maybe? You do the talking and I do the spellwork?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm a terrible Legilimens. I hate prying," she cuts herself off. "Plus, _Obliviate_ isn't exactly easy."

Draco raises an eyebrow. He's having a hard time keeping up here. "But isn't that even more invasive?"

"Yes," she says very curtly and eyes him with some intent. "I have a lot of experience."

Well that's that. Draco gulps and stops in place, hands folded behind his back. He wants to say something of comfort, but he's just drawing a blank. But then something catches his eye; it's that bloody Patronus again.

One word this time from its mouth. "_Up._"

Draco looks up. He swears so loudly that he forgets to say the actual spell, _Wingardium Leviosa_, and the plummeting Dumpster stops a mere yard above his head, dangerously swerving and threatening to break free from his grip. But Hermione rushes in and comes in with the save, gently lowering the Dumpster to the ground.

She turns to Draco with an amused smile. "Draco. It's _Leviosa_, not FUCK!"

It catches Draco so off-guard, he laughs up a storm, patting the Dumpster to hold himself up when the hatch swings up and over. Harry's pale hand creeps out from the garbage, a banana peel stuck to his knuckle.

"Did you get our man, Potter?" Draco chuckles, though the laugh soon dies in his throat.

Harry's bleeding. Like — Sectumsempra bleeding. It's — oh dear. Harry trips and smashes his head against the metal. Draco rushes to his side and grabs him, rummaging his hands through the robes. "Hermione, he's been shot, get help."

Harry comes to fast and looks up at Draco with wide eyes, barely focused. He nearly slaps Draco while getting up, pulling his wand out and spinning to face the Dumpster. "I'm not letting that bastard get away," Harry grumbles. "_Wingardium _— "

"No, Harry!" Hermione shouts. "Stop it! No more!"

Harry turns back, bruised lid hung over his eye. "Hermione, he's a killer. He has to be — "

"Harry, look at yourself," she screams. "You are _bleeding_, you need medical attention, it's not even a question."

"She's right, Potter," Draco grabs Harry's left arm a little too tightly. "You did a great job, but this can't continue, alright?"

"Alright," Harry lies through his teeth. It's obvious he's lying because he's still shaking like crazy. Draco tightens his hold and Harry doesn't even resist, he just cranes his neck up and shouts "_APPARATE_!"

But Harry doesn't warp away. He just… stays there. He blinks dumbly. "Ah shit, I forgot about the ward I put up…"

Draco suddenly howls in pain, back slamming against the Dumpster, a knuckle printed bruise adorning his jaw. When he blinks away the little white lights, Harry's already far off, running faster than ever before.

"_Stupefy!_"

It's not Draco's spell, but red sparks ignite in the air and nail Harry in the ribs, bowling the boy over. He gets up, teeth clenched, hitting that run again, bowed low, moving in such a herky-jerky way that it reminds Draco of a bloody monster crawling out from its hole.

Another _Stupefy!_ and Harry keels over. Draco looks over to the only other person who could have cast that and sees Hermione, eyes transfixed on her best friend, eyes _also _swimming in tears at the same time. Draco's too frightened to approach her, so he stays where he is. Mind going into ten million places but each train of thought intersecting into one nonsensical center.

"Has this happened before?" Draco manages to ask.

Hermione turns to him, a shine living in her left eye as the last of her tears trickle off her cheeks. Her mouth crinkles up and she just shakes her head. "Draco…

… this is what it's like being friends with Harry Potter.".


	6. Sorry, It's Just the Pressure Talking

Draco Malfoy is running and a waiter is running — Kingsley Shacklebolt is running too but in a very different sense of the word. As for Draco and the waiter boy, they run not for each other nor do they even sprint within the same span of time for these two men have very little to do with each other.

Because Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are entirely separate from each other for the first time within seventy two hours.

Draco runs because he is in pursuit of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who will later be running (wait for it!). But for now, Kingsley is a big man who can rely on large honkin' strides down the hall, freeing himself from wasting energy unlike Draco's flop sweat.

The waiter runs because he has heard Harry Potter is at his cafe, and he would like to get a big tip from the famous boy today, and if he does not get a big tip, he will take this matter to Twitter and publicly roast the poor Hitwizard.

But surprisingly it's Draco who runs fastest and Kingsley who runs slowest, so this narrative, dear reader, will continue with this in mind.

* * *

Draco is running — in case you already forgot (but who could forget The Many Labors of Draco Malfoy?) — after Kingsley Shacklebolt, leaping and vaulting over various obstacles in the cluttered halls of the Ministry. Draco is positive that Kingsley has already spotted him but is playing coy to the running, so Draco runs even faster than before.

Harry and Draco made an agreement while Harry was being treated at St. Mungo's; they will confront Shacklebolt together. But of course brave and brash Potter bails on the plan and runs the meeting solo. At least Draco's assuming that happened because Potter doesn't show up at the agreed upon meeting spot. Given his hard head, Harry probably went in early to 'save' Draco or something.

So Draco runs down the halls like a fool, shouting for Kingsley to wait up, for Kinglsey who shrugs and stomps along without a care in the world. Draco doesn't care how many obnoxious Gryffindors become privy to this moment, he just needs to get Head Auror's attention.

Then Kingsley steps into the lift and pivots on his boots, smiling at what Draco can only assume is very gentle elevator music. Draco bites his lip and runs faster, mere yards away. But the gates begin to slide shut and Draco feels like his heart will just drop from his chest if he misses this.

So Draco decides this might be a good time to practice one of the tricks he picked up off the rogue Death Eater man. He flicks his wand out, sticks it besides him and hurls the thing like a boomerang. It cleaves through the air, miraculously swinging between the two lift doors, perfectly parallel. He allows himself a grin and channels all his energy into that far-off wand and shouts, "_PROTEGO_!"

White sparks burst from both ends of the hawkthorn and the lift doors shoot back into their respective slots. He picks up his pace one last time and finally crosses into the lift, scooping up his wand as he dashes past. The doors clap shut, they rise up, and sure enough: the elevator music is pleasant.

"You could have just said _hold_," Kingsley smirks.

* * *

The waiter is running, as previously alluded to earlier, but hark! Woe for the waiter for he does not make it to Harry Potter's table in time. His nemesis, another regular ol' waiter that our temporary protagonist will eventually engage in an _Enemies to Friends to Lovers_ arc with, beats him to it. Blast it all!

Harry just orders water though; he's in a sour mood. So no big tips.

"Sorry, I'm late," Harry rasps to Ron, briefly nodding over to Ginny, who is definitely _not_ part of Tuesday Brunch. "What is this — an intervention?"

Ron nods gravely, lips puckered as if he just bit straight into a lemon to avoid a particularly awkward conversation with his sister. Noting the fat chunks of rind in Ron's black iced tea, this is likely the scenario.

Ginny rummages through her purse and pulls out a copy of this morning's _Quibbler_. At first, Harry's relieved because if it were the _Daily Prophet's_ take on his dumpster dive from the past eve, he might actually cry. But then Ginny unfurls the wackadoodle magazine and Harry almost cries anyways.

Today's cartoon is a pencil drawing of Harry Potter balancing on a dumpster, hand stretched far out to grasp a Golden Snitch from the air, while a hooded Beater fires bullets at him.

"Is this accurate?" Ginny asks coldly.

Harry can't think of anything to say so he just sort of stares.

"It's pretty badass, mate," Ron murmurs.

"Ron," Ginny chastises, small fingers rolling up against his big palm. It sort of strikes Harry in that moment that he hasn't seen the two of them together in a very long time now. Do they hang out often and just not invite Harry? Is the break-up that bad? "Harry will actually listen to you."

Ron breathes something out, but it's too garbled to be read as actual language, so the trio just sort of sit in silence.

"For what it's worth Ron," Harry's dry throat manages to shove out. "I'm easily influential."

Ginny's thin eyebrows raise and she looks at Harry with wide eyes. It hurts a little. He can remember when she used to look at him with starstruck eyes, and though her eyes have always remained fixated on Harry, that wonderful glimmer is long since gone. "Right, because Draco convinced you to come back…" she mutters.

"Yeah," Harry says in a small voice. "Um. Listen, I know I overdid it last night, but — I don't know. I don't really know what to say. I'm actually supposed to be meeting with Kingsley right now but I already know what he's going to say. I think I'm going to quit, better for the team if I — ."

Ron finally looks up from his half-eaten muffin, so Harry clamps his jaw tight. Ron tries to look grave but a phantom of a smile crosses his cheeks. "I've already taken your job, Harry. Um. You're like demoted and stuff, I'm sorry."

"Oh."

_Oh_? That's it? That's all he can come up with? _Oh_. How about _Ron. You've always kinda been in my shadow because of this stupid Voldemort shite, and I know it's been hard on you because you've had to work twice as hard for half the attention and — like — you actually care about being an Auror. I just did it because I thought I was supposed to. And —_

"Yeah," Ron doesn't know it but his teeth are shining between his lips. "Sorry."

Bugger. Now Harry feels like a shitstain of a friend. Come on, Harry. Get it together. Tell him that you couldn't be more proud of —

"Don't be sorry," Harry tries to sound relaxed, maybe if he does that he can manage something heartfelt and true. "You — you do better work than me. I'm not really a good leader."

"Yeah," Ron says quietly. "But um — that's not what we want to talk about, Harry."

"Oh?" Makes sense. Ginny's already given up on Harry, Hell, _Harry's_ already given up on Harry.

_Therapy,_ a sing-songy voice that sounds an awful like Hermione chants in his head.

Oh shit. Hermione.

Ginny beats Harry to it though. "You really hurt Hermione last night." Her eyes sort of flicker over to Ron, probably out of some sense of resentment.

This sucks. Ron and Ginny are mad at Harry because he took advantage of Hermione again. Meanwhile, Ginny is mad at Ron for not speaking up. Harry's kind of mad at Ginny for expecting Ron to be madder than maybe he wants to and above it all, Hermione, the one who has the right to be mad, likely isn't. She's just really sad.

Harry bows his head, unsure of what to even say here. Because it's not like Hermione's even here to hear him out. So he kinda just lets Ginny lay it on him for a while; he deserves it.

But the verbal flaying is actually brief. Ginny knows Harry too well to rail him for hours on end. He just needs a few precise stabs to the gut to feel all sorts of sorry for himself.

"Fuck," Harry mutters. "Guys, what do I do?"

Ginny blinks back in surprise. "You're serious?"

"Yes," Harry gasps. "I've hurt like everyone by this point, I don't want to though. Obviously. But I keep doing it. Fuck. Fucking Draco…"

Harry claps a hand to his forehead, peeling back the jet black hair and exposing the lightning shaped scar that never sees the light of day anymore.

"What about Malfoy?" Ron asks, trying to withhold a sneer. "I know you two have been partnered on this case… ah shit, did he push you to — "

"No, he — " Harry pauses, pulling at the air for words. There are so many words to describe Draco. " — has been really understanding honestly."

"Do you fancy him?" Ginny blurts out.

Harry bites his lip and looks up at her with the dolefuliest eyes. "Yeah. I think so. That's not weird to tell you, is it?"

"No, it's not," she says warmly. It's the first time she's smiled at him since this started. "You were the first one I told about Luna, remember?"

"Aw yeah," Harry scratches his head. "I'm overthinking it, aren't I — uh, what's up Ron?"

Ron looks like he might vomit slugs even though no one's hexed him. "What?"

"Uh." Harry shrugs. "I have a crush on Draco Malfoy."

"I caught that," Ron says. "But he's kind of a git, isn't he?"

Harry thinks about how Draco springs his arms and legs far too high up whenever he winds up running, which is often. "Yeah, he's still working out the kinks. But he really wants to make something of himself, I think."

Ron furrows his brow. "To like offset his shit head Death Eater routine?"

Harry's cheeks pinch his mouth into a smile. "I mean, yeah, that's what he usually says — but I dunno. I think it goes a little deeper than that."

Ron's lips tighten. "I don't think a redemption arc's gonna help him out all that much. He hurt a lot of our friends."

Harry blinks away some of his typical anger while sucking in a rather large gulp of water. "Ron, I think you'd like him if you gave him a chance."

A blitz of energy crosses between them and Ginny leans forward to snap the line. "Harry, we're not here to talk about Draco, we're here to — "

"No, hang on," Harry waves her off. He's not sure why but something about the way Ron is going about this is making Harry feel personally attacked. It's hard to process, there's too many threads of logic interweaving together and making a whole mess.

It reminds Harry of politics, and whenever _that_ comes up he usually hexes someone in such hilarious and over-the-top fashion that it demands to be depicted in _The Daily Prophet._

Who is Harry James Potter?

Some blockhead who never asked to be hero but ended up shlepping for the cause anyways, locked into the hot pursuit of power even though he himself — as Snape said many times over — is mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined rule breaker, delighted to find himself famous, attention seeking and impertinent… Yet few see past that, they continue to place him in seats of power because he's The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, and …

He looks deep into Ron's eyes and wishes he has the Legilimency strength of Draco so he could give it a whirl and find out what Ron really thinks of him. The deeper he looks into those icy eyes, the more he locks onto something entirely different.

Ron Weaseley, always seen through distorted lenses, no matter how tightly he grips the rim of the barrel, he's always visualized at the bottom. His hand-me-down robes never seem to fit, born from greater people. Like his brother the Dragon Tamer, or his other brother the famous joke inventor… or his younger sister the All-Star Quidditch athlete. But more often than not, he is still compared to The Boy Who Lived.

Harry's joints snap outward, straightening each of his limbs. "Ron, I've never _not_ noticed how hard you're trying to be like me, I just — "

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

Harry's limbs snap back into their curves, his rear gently slides back into its seat, but it is a little too late now to recover. " — um, shit."

Ron wipes what must be sweat from his forehead. "_Shit_ is right, mate. Hey. Uh. I gotta go."

Harry chokes down a pack of words that he's never aired out before, and they burn down his throat. Probably has something to do with this whole therapy thing. When he does find the courage to speak, the words slam his esophagus and he lurches forward, spilling over the water. He hastily places the glass back and maneuvers around the table, Ginny catching him by the hand so that he doesn't wander too far.

But Harry barely feels her touch.

"Ron, listen," Harry gasps, breaths more ragged than they were after he retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor from that awful lake. "You _actually_ want to be good, it's different for you. I — I just do what people tell me to, ya know? I've only been a hero because I feel like I'm supposed to — "

Ron's face greens so much so that his freckles burn as if they are punctures. "I know, mate. We all know. I — " he jerks his thumb to the air and follows its direction. " — I can't do this with you right now, sorry."

Harry wants to follow his friend, but Ginny's soft touch is hard to resist, and when soft goes hard and she yanks him into the seat besides her, he stays frozen.

"Harry," Ginny glares at him, somehow maintaining a smile. "No, stop — stop looking over at him, he's gone. You'll make up later, you always do — just — Harry, please. Look at me." Her teeth grind along the length of her lip. "_Look at me_."

The way she says that it's obviously supposed to be calming, but it reminds him of someone he lost in the war. Someone who commanded that they make eye contact before he pass on. Harry is sweating more now, he doesn't want to do this right now, but Ginny won't let him turn away. She grabs his shoulders and stares hard at him.

At least she's not crying while bleeding from her neck. Otherwise Harry might flashback and pull out a vial to catch her tears with and — _You have your mother's eyes._ — he falls forward into Ginny's arms, burying his face into her shoulder.

"Hey, hey, Harry, it's — " Ginny quavers. "It's okay, you and Ron have argued before, it's — "

Harry remembers Slytherin's Locket, how Ron stepped outside of the tent in a rage, and Harry didn't process what happened until Hermione followed him out and promptly burst into tears.

"Can we — " he gasps. "Fuck. I'm getting flashbacks, sorry. Unrelated, I… shit."

"Does this happen often?" she asks, all sounds tentative.

"Yeah."

Ginny runs her fingers through his hair, looking off at something in the distance her face angled just enough way that he can just barely see the whites of her eyes past the irises, and it makes Harry sad that she's hurt now too. He wants to break free and leave her alone, but his body won't respond.

"I don't want you to feel worse than you already do, Harry," Ginny whispers, now rocking back and forth with him. "But do you understand why it hurts Hermione so much when she helps you?"

"No," he sputters back. He thought he knew, but now nothing makes sense.

"Hermione is an _empath_," Ginny explains carefully. "It means that she takes other people's feelings on, like, she's really bad at compartmentalizing things. So when you sort of freak out, she — "

" — feels what I'm going through?" Harry offers, finally finding enough energy to at least rear his head back to better see Ginny. "Is there like — like a ward she could cast to prevent that? I could help her learn the spell — "

"No. _Harry_," Ginny shakes her head. "It's not a magical thing, it's a — it's a _feelings_ thing. It's what she's working through in therapy."

There's that nauseating word again: therapy.

"Oh," is all Harry can come up with.

Ginny nods. "You need to get into therapy. I can help you find one. But for now, I think you should go to work and do that meeting thing with Kingsley and Draco."

Harry's jaw shifts a bit into his head. "Ah fuck."

"Yeah," Ginny smirks. "You have a job and stuff, whether you want to be there or not."

Harry surveys the damages of his spilled water. "I didn't order anything — "

She raises an eyebrow. "You can eat later."

" — should I … huh? No, I know that. I mean — I'm asking you — _should I still tip?_"

* * *

Draco pants for an embarrassingly long time. Leaning against the banister, his nearly white hair dangles before his forehead. He runs a palm hand across his wet forehead and slicks the hair back, breathing in one fantastic breath of air. He looks to Kingsley and tries to speak but merely wheezes. He punches his chest, shakes his head out of frustration, and finally straightens up.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened with Potter."

"No need," Kingsley frowns. "I'm aware."

Draco licks his lips, trying to collect himself. "He talked to you then?"

"No," Kingsley shrugs. "But what I can say is that you are _officially _both off the case."

"Now hold on — " Draco's angry voice sounds ridiculous when hampered by so much panting.

Kingsley rattles on as if he were uninterrupted. "We are lucky Hermione Granger is so adept at Obliviating. I understand that you and Harry have your differences, but if you worked together, or at least listened to each other, maybe that wouldn't have been such a disaster."

Draco knows Kingsley is right, but still knows no one better for the job than him and Harry. If we're talking about the fate of the wizarding world. Though that is far from Draco's largest concern. "We are so close, Kingsley. Our first plot worked! We broke his wand, we — "

Kingsley raises a large palm to the air and Draco instantly quiets. Through half-lidded eyes, Kingsley burrows a deep gaze into the boy. "Enough. We're taking this to my office, I need to tell you two something."

"...Two?"

* * *

The door opens from behind Harry, and while that all-too-prominent lizard brain of his wants him to jerk his body around to see who is with Kingsley, it's all too obvious who that party might be, and he doesn't quite have the gumption to meet either man's eyes.

"Little _Granger_ of you to be waiting in the office like some teacher's pet, isn't it?" Draco snaps from behind, each syllable clocking Harry in one of the vertebrates.

Kingesly slips in before Harry can snap back with something equally mean. "Well, Harry is — _was _— my number one guy.

Draco starts to say something, but Harry cuts in, briefly looking over his shoulder as Draco settles in besides him. "Ron and me swapped jobs, I guess. He told me over Tuesday Brunch."

"_Tuesday Brunch_?" Draco scoffs. "You and Ron Weasley have _Tuesday Brunch_ and you didn't think to invite the queerest guy at the Ministry?"

Even when Malfoy's being a surly jerk, he's quite charming.

"Actually I'm the queerest guy at the Ministry," Kingsley slips in, settling into his Big Kahuna Chair. "Quite offended, Potter."

Harry double takes. "W-wait, you're — "

"Fuck," Draco growls. "You really are Dumbledore-lite."

Harry furrows his brow. "Dumbledore was queer?"

"Yeah," Draco says as if everyone knew that. "It's pretty obvious, there were just _so many_ hints that — "

"Please shut up," Kingsley groans, propping his cheek against one massive palm, dangling earring licking one of his picture frames. "I need to tell you two something."

Even when exhausted, the man's voice booms. Eyes sharper than even Dumbledore's, he's hard to look away from. So you very rarely notice the stout nose or the soft jaw. His wide teeth spread his mouth to the farthest reaches of his face, bending deep into a frown. "I'm running..."

See, there's that running thing again. Always coming back full circle.

"...for office," he finishes. "New Ministry leadership isn't really working out, I'm sure you've noticed."

Harry blinks dumbly, trying to feign agreement, which is hard because he hasn't paid any attention to the powers that be since Cornelius Fudge.

"They want me to return to my seat as Minister," Kingsley drawls, thankfully not spotting Harry's foolishness. "I am largely disinterested in that, but given current leadership I don't really have a choice."

Harry almost wants to scratch his head but then he'd look very stupid.

Somehow Draco picks up what Kingsley's throwing down. "You need the Auror Department to look good so that you can win, hence Harry getting dunked on."

Oh, actually that wasn't very complicated at all. Maybe Harry's just very stupid.

"Yes," Kingsley grins. "I don't want to be Minister again, but — well, you know what happened with George Washington and all that. It makes sense."

"No," Draco raises an eyebrow so thin it almost appears as a forehead wrinkle. "Who is George Washington?"

Harry's hand swats high into the air so hard that his rear pulls from the seat. Finally, he knows something Draco Malfoy doesn't.

"George Washington was a military commander in the American Revolutionary War," Harry speaks with the rapidcity of a stressed out typist trying to organize his team in a failing game of World of Warcraft. "After the war, the American people wanted him to sit as President so he did so. But at the end of his second term, when people desperately wanted him to run for a third time, he resigned so that his seat of power may not become a monarchy."

Draco tilts his head to the side. "The fuck?"

"What Harry says is accurate," Kingsley booms. "And reminds me that as Minister, I will consider integrating compulsory Muggle education for all Wizards."

"_Will be Minister?_" Draco repeats. "Sort of presumptuous, innit?"

"Oh please," Kingsley waves it off. "I'm kind of a badass. Who on Earth could oust me?"

Harry leans back in his chair and actually considers that — there's more than a few, like Hermione for instance. But Hermione would never actually consider running, she's sort of given up on big government. Though Harry's never quite gotten why.

Like — she has a right to cyncism but it's not like she's seen what he has. She's always worked outside the big rule aside from a brief stint in the Ministry — hrmph, but no. It's not like she is actually cynical, she has wider eyes than most.

"You alright, Potter?" Kingsley asks with piercing eyes.

Harry rubs his nose to stall for time. But Draco doesn't cut in. Meaning Harry's got to pipe up.

"Yeah, well — no," Harry grunts and Draco sigh, splashing his face against splayed hands. "Just because people think you ought to become Minister again doesn't mean you have to, ya know?"

There's a knowing twinkle in Kingsley's eyes, and Draco immediately scoffs. "Fucking Dumbledore-lite over here."

Kingsley doesn't roll his eyes at that, though the twinkle does only blossom one more time before going still. "Laying it on too thick am I? Anywho, Harry, I understand where you're coming from but it's different for me — "

"_No,_" Harry snaps. "It's no_t_."

Harry catches Draco staring at him from his peripherals, and it makes him sort of mad. Red crawls into his cheeks and he almost wants to swat Draco away, tell him to mind his own business or something. His hands twitch around the waist, fingers ready to pat himself down to find wherever he stuffed his wand away.

"If you don't want to become Minister, you shouldn't. It's just going to hurt people and — "

"I'm far more capable of doing that, _Potter,_" Kingsley snarls against his better nature. "My reasoning for telling you two about this is because — "

Harry's wand rockets like a metronome, nailing him in the sides, the tip getting warmer and warmer. "Because you want us to do something about it, huh?! What is it this time? You want good PR? Testimonies?"

Harry gets to his feet, he doesn't know why, he just does. Draco stays firmly planted, actually scrapes the legs of chair backwards across the hardwood floor.

"No, Harry, nothing of the sort," Kingsley's thick lips stretch wide and thin, concern suddenly alive in his eyes. "I'm not trying to manipulate — "

"Yes, you are! You're just like _him_," Harry growls, hand clapping over the wand, trying to imagine peaceful thoughts. Like chocolate with Lupin on the train. Something to quell the wand. But instead the warmth just transfers all around him, an orange rim breathing out from his frame.

"_Him_? Harry — what are you getting at?"

Harry's face scrunches up so much that Draco does rise to the occasion, does place a pale hand on his wiry shoulder. "Calm down," he ennunciates.

Harry casts a cold look and brushes him off. "The only reason I lived is because my mother _loved_ me — but I think if _he_ — if _Dumbledore_ tried the same thing, I'd be six feet under. Because all he ever saw me as — "

"Harry — " Kingsley reaches forward with some hesitation. The orange light wavers now, sharp beams protruding from the round framework.

" — as — a — fucking — " The light pulsates wider and wider with each syllable, finally extending past the reach of his own arms. " — _tool_."

The light explodes and Harry immediately realizes what he's just done. _Now_ he grabs the wand and flicks it at the air. "_PROTEGO!_"

The orange light surges out as an explosion, but a quick array of silver barriers protrude in the air and take the brunt of it. Though some desk ornaments do tumble off and shatter, flames licking the floor off of now singed tapestries.

They're all standing now, each frozen in some moment of time. Harry tries to pay too much attention to it, and is the first to take a seat, slumping inward. Draco locks eyes with Kingsley while he drags his chair out to meet where he sits.

Kingsley falls back too, knees nearly bumping the bottom of his desk, and scratches his cheek. Purses his lips and limply holds his hand into the air. "Are you done?"

Harry's shoulders rise and fall, as if he were standing over someone he just nailed across the face. "No," he admits. He would _like_ to not be so mad, the postue he is assuing is very Vernon Dursley of him. "I'm mad."

Kingsley cracks a little smile. "Obviously. Draco, could you please explain for me what I'm asking you two to do?"

Harry furrows his brow. "Did you two have a secret meeting/"

"During Tuesday Brunch, yeah," Draco clips, leaning deep into his outstretched knees. "Harry. We're only _officially_ off the case."

It is not until Draco's eyebrows strike his widow's peak (and his forefinger rubs up against his wicked jaw) does Harry catch the implication.

"Oh," Harry breathes out dumbly. "Officially."

"Officially," Kingsley nods back. "You are still two of the best that I have. Somehow. Not great leaders, obviously, but Weasley stepping up will fix that." He says it all wistfully, as if he's thinking more to himself. "You will stop this son of a bitch, but not in the public eye."

"Because of your election," Harry suggests.

Kingsley purses his lips, speaking very delicately. "Yes. It's not a good look."

Draco tugs against Harry's billowing robes. "Don't," he whispers.

Harry pushes past the urge to look the man in those darty silver eyes, and remains focused on Kingsley. His thighs click up and run straight along the calves, gaze still steady. "I'm not working a case under the table just because you want to look good to voters."

Kingsley's hands clasp together. Cocks his head past the knuckle. "Do you respect me, Potter?"

"Not when you're running for offices just because you were told to."

"Harry, _think_," Kingsley rises before Harry, both hands pushing hard against the desk. "Use your mind; your whole career you've been enacting the law to preserve what we do here. Just because I am being upfront about it this time, it doesn't mean you should be going off. Does that make sense?"

Harry's jaw finally unlocks itself, his words more fluid. "Tell the _Prophet_ that I am going on leave, or something. I — "

Draco pulls against his sleeve a bit harder and Harry freezes. "_Harry_."

It is a far gruffer sound than _Potter_ makes.

Maybe if Draco's weren't pleading, it'd be harder for Harry to look away. But right now, he can't even fathom or take in such a look. So he retracts his sleeve and says, _"Sorry._"

No whistles or bangs this time. It's the quietest exit Harry Potter has ever made.


	7. Yes to Life and Yes to Magic!

_**A/N:**_

_TW: graphic depictions of violence _

_I know that this chapter is a little dense, it tries to do a lot so I hope it all comes through and true. I'm a full time activist, actually formerly employed by Greenpeace, and these idea of actually tangibly saving the world in addition to the stability of your mental health are really daunting, and honestly not talked about enough. So this is me grappling with that. _

_Sorry it took so long for an update and I hope this is worth it. _

* * *

Not even the Dark Mark could blot out the sun like the smog from the rainforest fires in Indonesia. So consistent is the smoke that the charcoal gray overcast completely veils away the sun, blotting entire villages in this horrible dark yellow. Like a real life sepia filter.

Indigineous people cannot leave their homes, for the fear of actually dying from smoke inhalation. It's not just Mother Nature doing it to itself; it is intentional strategy on the part of forest destroyers. The needed frontline is voiceless when they cannot even they protest. Unless they are willing to sacrifice something and swallow billows of smoke.

But wizards can kind of handle it. Barely.

Hermione runs — yes, yes dear reader, running is _always _involved in the first moments of these stories, because this is a story about business people, and — where were we? Fuck… oh! Yes! The _running_. Hermione _runs_ across the densely packed mounds of fallen branches and chips of bark, dragging Harry along with her. While she focuses on cutting the briefest path through the rain forest, Harry throws up ward after ward. Because while they run — the smoke _surges._

Tiny white shields smack up against the smoke and push it back, giving the visual impression that their are gray snakeheads bobbing at them. Harry has never moved this fast before in his life; not even in the Battle of Hogwarts did he have to be this on it. At some point, he's certain that he trips, but Hermione catches him with a silent _Wingardium Leviosa._

Harry's feet briefly kick off the ground, but they eventually catch on flat ground and the spell leaves him. He hits the foliage hard, vibrations running up both of his legs.

"_Duck_!" Hermione shrieks.

Harry can barely see a damned thing so he just follows directions and ducks low, this time tripping but not getting caught by a spell. Instead, he falls flat on his face, a blue tarp gently pressing his glasses against his eyes. Harry heaves himself high enough to see and finds Hermione in a blur of motion. Too focused to notice him, she throws ward after ward up.

Harry's heart quickens a beat; he knows not to make this all about him, but watching Hermione cast up wards while they're trapped in a tent is still rooted in something painful for him. Though this tent is different; it's so… normal.

"No living rooms or bathrooms or anything?" Harry rolls onto his back and looks past his chest to see her.

Hermione frowns. "No. Sometimes I rescue indigineous people and have to stow them away in here."

"Ah," Harry responds dryly.

They both fall onto their haunches, breaths ragged, faces beaded in so much sweat it's almost as it could fall and peel their face right off.

"Next time you tell me to Apparate to Indonesia," Harry laughs darkly. "A heads up about crazy fires might be nice."

Hermione cocks her head, mouth pursed, blinking in the face of his little joke. "You mean you didn't know it was like this up here?"

Harry looks from side to side. "Uh — no. Sorry."

Hermione nods and turns away, gently leaning against the tarp, which now glows with the rage of the fire. Orange lines trail up the exterior, kind of like a rock splintered by magma. Only truly powerful wards can stop this kind of destruction. "I just figured since you donate so much to us that you knew..."

"No, I don't really get it," Harry leans back too. "I don't have time to learn everything, so I just trust that whatever you're doing is right is all."

A smile does come to her lips. "That's actually really nice of you to say, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry shrugs. "I'm good at being blunt I guess. Why no Portkey by the way? It took a lot of oomph to Apparate over here and — "

"Portkey spots get destroyed because we're always on the move. I'm sure you can imagine why," Hermione says as if she's been asked this ten million times, as in, how Hermione always answers questions. "You know this isn't rapid response, Harry."

Harry blinks and turns his head slowly. "Really? What is it then?"

Her eyes shine with something incredible sad daring to breach the tear ducts. "_Constant direct relief_."

* * *

Hermione works for this group _Greenpeace_. Harry doesn't really know too much about it, it kinda dawns on him in that moment that he's never tried to internally distinguish any of the environmental groups from each other. Same thing with politicians — they're always the same, rotten jerk...

Even Kingsley apparently. It shouldn't hurt so bad, it's not like Kingsley's the first powerful mage to operation him like a puppet.

But according to Hermione, that's not true. Not Kingsley, the environmental group thing. She says that Greenpeace, unlike Sea Shepherd, is nonviolent, and focuses primarily on holding corporations and governments accountable. While groups like Sierra Club share the same vision, they lobby for progressive legislation. Greenpeace 'culture jams,' by attacking brands by connecting them to horrible practices.

Hermione usually works on Greenpeace's research teams from offices. She was part of the small team that discovered that Mattel was using ten thousand year old trees to make toy packaging for Barbie. But occasionally she ships out to the frontlines to get a little buzz. Helps keep her in line with the work.

It's the same intensity that Harry works through 9-5, although something about what Hermione does is different. She's tired, with these dark lines under her eyes, but after panting she always stops to smile. As if she still can't believe she's really doing this.

"This is sort of how I deal with everything," Hermione tells him while they gift an indigineous tribe with warm food and basic supplies. Because of climate change, one of the rivers flooded and all the eggs that were to bloom into fish were swept away. "It reminds me that no matter how upset I get — I can still make a difference, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry echoes even though he doesn't particularly feel that way towards being an Auror. But then again — he's not an Auror. He quit. Sort of. Not like he said anything, he just stormed out and no one reached out to him. Not even Ron. Feels bad.

He stops to breathe.

Harry's feet are planted in soil that is full of life, in a precious pocket yet unaffected by deforestation. "You're serious when you say this is all for palm oi—oy!"

Harry lurches forward, foot falling through a sinkhole, and his bucket of fish tumbles from his arms. It slams against the dirt, and the fish loll out, one in particular slipping off and falling into a rapid stream. It's a big fish too.

Harry briefly reaches for his wand with an _Accio!_ on his lips but Hermione grabs him by the wrist. Her tongue lashes but no sound comes out. She doesn't need to say it for him to understand.

"_**No.**_"

They'll talk about it later, that's what her eyes say. Harry's hand drops back to the barrel, and he tries to salvage as much food as possible. Meanwhile, Hermione returns her gaze to the person taking some fish from her hands. "Here, yes. Palm oil mostly. The Amazons are more about logging and soy beans and cattle farming — this is — um… pretty straightforward."

Canals run through the rainforests, splitting it apart into a grid more parallel than New York City. These canals drain all the moisture away so that the trees can be slashed and burned. The smoke never quite goes away.

Harry's eyes skim to the treetops where he can see a faint orange glow off in the distance. Who is burning today? Nestle? Nabisco? Dove?

Apparently, from a satellite, Indonesia is red.

* * *

There are people who run Harry's country that don't believe in climate change — well, don't believe in anything really… but most importantly call climate change _fake science._

Clearly those numbskulls have never been _here_ before. To accept gifts from worn hands while gazing into their deeply entrenched eyes. To then slip a bullet proof vest over the gifter's shoulders so they don't die while protesting.

The native people say _climate change_ as if it's a household name.

Hermione mentions to Harry that sometimes climate deniers come here — but big bags of money from the fossil fuel industry wait for them at home so nothing they see here matters. It makes Harry want to punch something, but Greenpeace is nonviolent.

"So what exactly happened at Tuesday Brunch?" Hermione asks, leaning over a meter stick her wand is jammed into. She's trying to map out weather patterns so the villagers know whether or not anything bad is coming. Her hair is all frizzed up, sleeves of her blouse rolled past the elbows.

It takes Harry a moment to _get_ what she's talking about. Tuesday Brunch was weeks ago, as in the _incident._ Because, y'know, weekly humdrum things.

"Oh, Ron told you?" Harry asks dumbly, immediately wincing. What a stupid thing to say.

Hermione could say, _Told me? No, Harry, he railed at me about you for hours!_ but instead she bites her lip and shakes her head. "You should have told him you were leaving with me."

"What, why?" Harry immediately snaps. "So he can get all jealous and — "

Hermione shoots Harry such a powerful look that Harry has no choice but to shuck the fuck up. With far more breath in her lungs than what is healthy, she says, "Ron's grown up a lot, he doesn't do that anymore. What I mean is that — well — it's kinda obvious why you're out here, isn't it?"

Harry furrows his brow, wondering if Hermione is actually a highly skilled Legilimens or if he just really sucks at Occlumency like Snape berated him for.

"Nothing to do with magic, Harry. Your face is just very expressive," Hermione says with a cute little smirk and Harry blanches.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry shrugs. "I'm — running. Hate m'job, you know that."

"What about Draco?" Hermione throws her head back into her readings, as if she knows Harry is about to pale even further.

"I dunno," Harry's voice treads lightly from his lips. "Hey — um. I need to ask you something?"

Hermione pauses, eyeing the shack's ceiling as if the answers might be trawled up there. "Erm — what? You want to know if I approve of Drac—"

"Of course you fucking approve," Harry laughs, throwing his arms onto the tables besides him. "You two hit it off I heard. No — um — big topic, but — why don't we use magic around the native people? Wouldn't it help?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Yes, it would. But I don't think they're ready."

Harry looks up, caught a little off-guard; he didn't notice Hermione walked up to him at some point. "Well aren't we running out of time?"

"Yes," it gets stuck in her throat for a moment but it does come out. "But Harry, imagine finding out there's a whole world of magic right in front of you — and they have all the power in the world to save you — but they won't because they're locked into civil war."

Harry shrugs. "Kind of how I found out."

She suppresses a smile and kneels down before him. "Yes, but you got to go to a magical school as a whimsical sort of apology; it's a little different here, right?"

* * *

Harry really wants to just trust Hermione for once. As he's always had. But he really doesn't think it's okay to simply not use magic when on the ground out here. People are dying and he has solutions on how to stop that.

So it's at the next Greenpeace meeting that Harry finally speaks up. He doesn't even know what he's agreeing to, he just stands up when they ask for a volunteer. There are a few surprised glances his way, which makes sense, until that point Harry was the total weirdo who didn't talk to anyone… except Hermione of course. But he kinda read as a tagalong in over his head.

He sits around the campfire with the other activists while they tell him about the plan; there's this logging company that is bringing in more than they appear to be taking out. Meaning they're probably slashing outside of their legal boundaries. Or rather, definitely are. But no one knows where.

The plan is to visit the logging site in the morning, disguised as one of their loggers. At the mention of the word _disguise_ Harry finally bends up from the arm eagerly clapped to his back and gazes over at Hermione; she does _not_ return his goofy grin.

("_But 'Mione_," Harry later complains while lounging around in Hermione's bed. "_Polyjuice technically isn't magic. Freaking Peter, the uh, the bearded guy _— "

Hermione rolls her eyes and smacks a hand through Harr's newfound scruff. "_Harry, all environmentalists who can have beards grow one._"

Harry doesn't like this teasing much at all. " _— well, he's a Muggle and even he could make Polyjuice, so I think that — _"

"_Harry, no._")

Once the disguised Harry is on site, he needs to discreetly plant this cool Muggle thing called a _tracking device_. He then needs to hold his cover as long as possible, so no one gets suspicious of him coming in and out so fast. Makes sense.

It's exciting too. It'll be just like the time they broke into the Ministry and Harry was disguised as… some guy.

Harry hopes he can be a bit more distinguished this time around.

* * *

Welp. Some guy it is.

The actual logger ends up zonked out and in a ditch. He's this big, tall, broad shouldered guy who would make for a really good Beater if he put his mind to it. But nope, he's doing the illegal logging thing.

Branches crunch under Harry's boots as he walks onto the site. It's all so messy, so haphazard, and you can tell by the wetness of the dirt that sticks to the rubber that this is newly unearthed. What was once densely packed rain forest is now a track-laden clearing covered in soot and branches. It's bizarre wading through it, you can still smell the vegetation and moisture. But this spot of land is dead.

It'd be nice to say it's because someone snapped their fingers and whisked it away, but this took days — even _weeks_ of work.

None of the other loggers turn to face Harry, everything is as it should be from their perspective. Bizarre though watching them work. This morning, they're digging.

A logger with an eagle nose dips his face deep into one of the trenches, running a hand down the sides, knocking little bits of dirt to the bottom. He sniffs at it, beady eyes laser focused. He could be surrounded by fire and still be inspecting his little forest-draining-canal.

It's what these people do. Harry wonders if they ever stop to think about the repercussions of what they're doing; Voldemort certainly knew. This new Death Eater guy — Harry shudders at the thought, it's been weeks, maybe a month now, since he's touched on that case — he _must_ know. You have to know what you're doing is bad. For Dark Magic and Unforgivables and things of that sort. It's like on the label.

But this?

Some of the men joke. Not about burning people alive and/or turning their homes into tissue paper, just about normal stuff. It's bizarre. Because Harry actually kind of likes these guys. They remind him of the Auror's office. The place where Harry is the only one to dare try a war joke.

According to Hermione, Indonesia has the highest percentage of climate change deniers in the world. Looking around, at how carelessly these trees are mowed down, that's pretty obvious. Apparently, the government here is ran by genocidal war lords. There's like a documentary about it — _The Act of Killing_ — it's about how normal these monsters are when in the public eye — but Hermione personally can't stomach watching it. Harry probably can't either, not with his temper.

Harry doesn't like the idea of betraying these man — he'd rather help them. But that's probably not possible. They're kind of beyond lost. You can't really fix a system like this overnight — and you might not want to address that when your planet has already burnt halfway to Hell.

So Harry Potter, Master of Death, ducks below one of the logging trucks and very easily plants the tracking device on the underbelly. He licks his lips at latching the thing on. Because anyone else on this team of activists would have struggled with this. But not him. He used magic.

About fifty minutes in, Harry's natural brown complexion starts to shift back into his hands. He grumbles something about taking a leak. By the time he finds his _some guy_ that he turned into, he's pretty much Harry Potter again.

He throws a few more spells out so that _some guy_ comes to the conclusion that he's actually been working for the past hour. Pretty easy, and no one had to get hurt.

* * *

Greenpeace Indonesia is cramped. Bare bones actually. The place has been burnt down a couple of times by terrorists who knew that Greenpeace was effective, so for this edition of the headquarters, no one really bothers to decorate. Which is alright, Harry doesn't really mind. He just wishes he could have some space.

Hermione is oddly quiet the whole day. It's possible that she can sniff the stench of fluxweed off Harry. Fuck, it's not that it's possible, it's that's what happened. But Hermione won't say anything, she just keeps her lips pursed.

What is also not a possibility, but what is actually happening, is that Harry really doesn't want to have a row with his only friend left so he intentionally keeps himself glued to gatherings with the other activists. It's not until they are in the kitchen alone, brewing tea for everyone else, that it's just Harry and Hermione.

Harry takes a seat at the coffee table and looks up at Hermione, smacking his wet lips. "Um. I know you're really mad at me right now but — I don't want to talk about it tonight, okay?"

Hermione lets out a deep breath, definitely considering going off on him anyways, but ultimately decides not to. She doesn't say anything at first though, just nods, and spoons more leaves of Early Grey into her mug.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she murmurs. "Going to check if we've got any significant readings from your tracking device."

Harry nods. God, this feels bad. Maybe she'll come back with good news though, but it really doesn't seem like it. Those guys have been driving for hours. Undoubtedly, they're headed to their new logging site but they're going so deep into the rain forest that Greenpeace might lose connection or something. Because the loggers ve already driven over 150 miles.

Either way, Harry's got some time before all that water hits a boil so he pulls out a crumpled piece of lined paper he yanked out of Hermione's notebook.

_Hey. It's me. I'm in Indonesia with Hermione, I don't know if you've heard._

_How's it been? You still working the case? _

_This isn't working, is it? Me trying to act like everything's normal? I don't know. I think I am supposed to cross out all the junk above, but you've already seen me at my worst, haven't you? Probably not though. I think my worst just keeps getting worse. Do you ever feel that way?_

_Honestly, you seem to have it together. Crazy shit, makes me sad we weren't friends earlier. When did you get your shit together, Draco?_

_I betrayed Hermione's trust today. I think it's going to help us win a campaign though, so it's kinda confusing. I'd tell you what I did but then this letter will be too long. _

_If you don't want to talk to me anymore, I get it. But if you do, well, I want to invite you to Tuesday Brunch if you, uh, know what I mean. Heh heh heh._

_You're a good guy, Draco. Thanks for helping me out._

Harry draws back, fingers resting under the folds of the paper. He's not even sure how to mail this. Like Hell an owl would be willing to show up in this barbeque pit. He doesn't have any Floo Powder or a Portkey either. And Apparating all the way to Britain just to deliver a letter is — well — there's a reason Wizards pay so high for that kind of delivery service.

There's a thud. Some muffled voices, one deep one that Harry's never heard before making demands. Not good. Especially in this line of work. He slips his wand up his sleeve and makes his way towards the lobby where the commotion seems to be happening.

* * *

When Harry enters the cramped office space, he sees Hermione in a computer chair, limbs tight to her soft frame as if she were tied up. An armed man stands over her with a gun, patiently waiting for the other activists to head out the door. A little paralyzed by fear himself, Harry waits a beat too long to do something and then the gun is pointed at him.

"Here's how this is going to work…" the armed man tells them a few minutes later, or it might have been seconds. Harry's not sure, time has slowed to a crawl. "You tell me what possessed one of my guys to plant a tracking device on ourselves or…" He raises a walkie to his chin. "... you burn."

It does feel warm.

Harry looks over to Hermione for help. This guy isn't anything he can't handle _but_ Greenpeace has been remarkably not violent since 1971. Well, there was this one incident where Paul Watson tore a fence down… and another where he snatched a sealer's club from some bastard's hands, but — God, Hermione would make a really good professor. A month or so with her has already been better than six years with Professor Binns.

Considering the nonviolent policy, throw in the fact that Harry isn't supposed to use magic here and you've got a pickle. Oh, and while we're at, Hermione is streaming all of this to FaceBook Live — discreetly. Mean gun man hasn't noticed yet.

_Take what's out of sight, out of mind, and put it __**in **__the sight and __**in**__ the mind, Harry,_ he can remember Hermione explaining one day.

"You know why we're doing it, don't you?" Hermione says, and Harry is positive that the Sword of Gryffindor would come out for her right now "The trees. You're not supposed to be logging outside of your boundaries."

The man nods, muttering something, scooching a little closer, getting _very_ point blank with his firearm. "How'd you get my guy?"

"_Because I used a bloody Polyjuice Potion!"_ Harry wants to blurt but he can't. He needs to solve this without upsetting Hermione. He's smart enough to find a solution. Maybe.

"I have no idea," Hermione says in a very unconvincing way.

Flames lick through the cracks in the walls, leaping up the planks fast. Harry looks back to the man, all bug eyed, and the man_ snickers_ at it all. Merlin's fucking Beard, this is insane.

Harry comes up with a plan fast and hooks his foot around the leg to Hermione's wheelie chair and before the man catches sight of it, Harry pushes hard. Ends up twisting his ankle and knocking Hermione onto the floor, but it works. Because it gets her out of harm's way and brings Harry _in_. When the man fires his gun, the bullet nails Harry in the right shoulder and he falls flat on his back.

It's kinda like getting smacked by a really precise _Crucio!_ There's this shifting in his head, as if the floor to the headquarters were shaking, but he knows that's internal. PTSD bullshit or something. Harry flips up onto his three usable limbs and glances over to Hermione. He can't see her face though, so he props himself up only to get socked by the mean gun man. Harry's jaw crunches into his skull and he flops over again.

Harry acts fast. There's no way Hermione's camera feed can see him so it's time to act. He props his rear into the air and aims his bloody arm at the man from under his own stomach and _Confundo! _Harry winces and hears the man bleat in shock as he suddenly topples over and crashes onto the floorboards besides Harry. This time there's an actual shifting in the ground, and Harry rolls over, eyes sweeping across the room.

From burning wall to burning desk to burning everything — that caught fast… ah! The man dropped his gun! It slid within arms reach of Harry so he instinctively snatches it. The man gnashes his teeth and swipes at Harry, so Harry leans back into a genuflect, gun kicking up and aimed square at the guy's chest.

She's out of focus from here, but Harry can see Hermione looking up at him, absolutely livid. Eyes wide and black. If she had the strength, she'd say something probably. But she starts shuffling about, phone slipping out of her blouse and tumbling facedown on the floor, her boot crashing over it.

Is she killing the feed?

Hard to say, but what's easy to know — and do — is to let instincts kick in and fire the damn gun off when this lunatic's charging at him.

_Bang! _

…

Nothing.

The man looks past his left and right shoulder, checking where the bullet went because it definitely should have nailed him in the chest, but no such thing happened. In fact, it's almost as if the wretched thing just _up and vanished_.

Harry locks eyes with Hermione. She's looking straight down the barrel of the gun, muttering something under her breath. Harry's not sure what. Not good at lip reading. So he fires again.

_Bang! _

_Bang! _

Second bullet disappears like the last one, not even exiting from the white plume kicked out of the barrel. The third one vanishes too and then Harry knows what Hermione's mouthing.

"_Evanesco!" _

"_Evanesco!"_

Well that's non-violent direct action for ya.

The man cackles at the sight of Harry futilely kicking the gun back with each failure of a shot. By this point, it's obvious Hermione's not going to let Harry kill this mean gun man so the best Harry can do is safeguard it himself.

_Click! Click!_

(Harry _Evanesco!ed_ away the last two bullets before they even left the cartridge.)

"Pansy activist, can't even fire a gun to save his godforsaken life," the man grunts and rushes at Harry, hand striking Harry right in the Adam's Apple, knocking him back down to the floor. By now, everything is smeared in orange and red, soon to be black once the smog at the ceiling extends down to the floor.

"Leave him alone!" Hermione screams, and Harry sees a blur of his friend standing among the rubble, phone held out. Looks like she didn't break it after all, maybe… maybe she was masking the sound of the gun shots? Fuck. She really does care about Greenpeace.

"The whole world can see you right now!" Hermione's arm remains steady, but the rest of her shakes before this man. Especially her left leg, it bounces like a pogo-stick. "Is this what you want to be?!"

The man laughs and he punches Hermione to the floor, using his foot to roll her against splintered wood burning at the tips. Still, she holds the phone before her, and draws blood from her own lip to avoid screaming. A boot pounds her on the chest, pressing her against the fire, the man wrenching the phone free from Hermione's hand, and then swings one last kick at her, knocking her in the jaw.

He laughs, twirling the phone around to face himself. "How about we show the world what happens to people who can't mind their own business?" He takes a knee before Harry and grips him by the throat, pushing him against the burning wall, holding the camera above Harry's splayed out feet.

"How about you give me a close up?" Harry winces, and the man grins, liking the idea an awful lot, and shoves the camera so close that Harry's face fills the frame.

Meanwhile, behind his back, Harry holds his wand behind his waist and brings himself back to the happiest moments of his life: getting the Hogwarts letter, chocolate with Lupin, finding out that Sirius was anything but a killer and actually his godfather, defeating Voldemort, messing around with Draco at Parkinson's…

Harry doesn't need to say, or even think the words at this point, _Expecto Patronum!_ kicks up on its own. But just as the white light begins to blast off the tip of his wand, his other hand closes around the end and holds back the light, containing it with a makeshift _Protego! _thing.

(Hogwarts was so dense with magic that electronics were completely unusable on campus. Though there's no real spell for that, Harry figures that the most he can do to fill one pocket of space with magic should do the trick. So he continues to cast his best spell, layering itself over and over again.)

Harry's vision gives out for a second, then comes back. Then back out. And in. He's got seconds. Makes it awfully fucking hard to think happy thoughts.

…

Aunt Margo blowing up like a balloon and flying into the sky, _that_ is a keeper. Amicably breaking up with Ginny, that's another. Making Gregory Goyle laugh. Solving his first case. Using his status as a war veteran to solicit respect from his very conservative and humdrum uncle. Giving Dudley a hug after the man finally apologized.

Draco helping him through his panic attack.

The spell burns Harry's hand more than the fire. It's like having all of this positive energy that you aren't allowed to place anywhere. As it threatens to burn away the flesh and crumble his bones into dust, the white light behind him blasts into an aura around him — thankfully masked by all the smoke — and the phone starts to go on the fritz.

With the live feed dead, Harry kicks the man right in the jaw and sucker punches him in the face. One-two and he's out, just like that. Building's still burning though. Harry grabs his wand from behind him and gets to his feet, looking over to Hermione. "I killed your live feed so I could kick him, sorry to break the policy and all — oh, th-thanks, 'mione."

Hermione's arms wrap tight around Harry and it kind of hurts to let go. But he does, he flicks his wand into the air, the thing still igniting with white, and because the coast is clear now, he shouts it.

"_Augmenti!"_

The white from the _Expecto Patronum! _doesn't go away though, it just shifts into white rapids that propel Harry backwards, the cascading torrents ripping from it turning about half of the fire into steam, but in the process, the rapid rips his wand into pieces. Phone too.

(Which is too bad, because of Muggle companies' insistence on not covering _water damage_.)

Harry watches the pieces of his historic wand fall to his feet, knowing that he's going to feel really sad about this later on, but Hermione pulls him along and within seconds, they form the greatest grouphug of all time with the other activists.

* * *

"So… what's up? Beyond the obvious."

"Oh, you know… the obvious."

One of the nearby villages takes Greenpeace in for the night. Apparently one of the other environmental groups is coming within the next day or so to lend a hand now that their old office is kaput. Hard to find time to be alone, what with all the conference calls the two need to hop on.

(Hermione has to talk to the big guys in fancy hats about what happened.

Harry has to talk to the actions' team to come up with what went wrong in their strategy, and how they can fix it for a similar campaign in Brazil.)

But early the next morning, Harry and Hermione find time and hang out near one of the riverbeds. Kind of reminds Harry of the old days, when Ron was MIA and the Golden (Du)o had absolutely no leads on Horcruxes. Feels kinda similar, except it's even more of Harry's fault this time.

After some time in silence, Harry's mouth quivers into something very unattractive. All puffy faced. "Hermione, I broke the rules. I'm sorry."

She nods and doesn't say anything, so he continues. "You trusted that I could handle it and obviously I — I — " It's so odd for her to be so straight faced; why isn't she reacting? " — I guess it's good my wand blew up on me then?"

Hermione shakes her head and shifts forward, taking Harry's cheek in hand. Her eyes glisten because she is crying, she's just better at not showing it. "Harry, I don't think you're upset that you successfully outwitted an actual assassin."

"What?" Harry feebly scratches his head. "Yeah — I'm — yeah, that's why I'm — I'm upset, because I — I almost shot someone and — "

" — but Harry, you didn't do shoot him the last two times because you knew it was wrong," Hermione smiles. "You — you _Evanesco!ed_ the last two bullets, Harry. You're a good person. Unless you were just trying to make me happy."

Harry frowns, bowing his head forward. "I don't know, honestly. I felt really good when I kicked him at the end — and that's fucked up, isn't it? I donate so much to this place and — if I did shoot — or if my kick made it onto the livefeed — imagine the damage it'd do."

Hermione tilts her head because she knows he's right. "Yes."

She's too tired to talk, he thinks. "But — despite that, Hermione — I'm — I'm not — I don't feel bad! About hurting people. _I_ think it was right and… damn, that's new for me."

"What's new?" She stay so still leaning against her tree.

"Me doing what I want to, I always just take orders..." Harry thinks about Dumbledore for a moment and feebly adds, "...even when I think I'm acting independently."

Hermione's eyes go glassy. "Harry, I don't want to call you a drama queen but — you're not upset about kicking the guy, but you're stringing it into this drama and — listen — _that's not why you're upset_. And you're a good person, okay?

"No, I'm not," Harry's knees scrunch up higher. "I'm — oh fuck, you are right, I'm totally upset about something else."

Hermione flashes her pearly whites and taps her temple. "_Therapy_."

"Fuck," Harry grunts, hands falling to his sides. "You're always right, Hermione, and I — I — I've hurt you pretty bad, haven't I?" He waits a second, but his chest tells him to keep going. He doesn't want to hear the horrible confirmation that yes, he hurt her. "I don't want to hurt people anymore. How do I — fuck."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Starts with you asking Draco on a date."

"What? That's — oh, _How do I fuck,_ ha ha, I get it, no though," Harry grunts. "I'm annoyed because I can't ask you what I want to ask you."

Her hand digs into a patch of wood chips closer to him. "Why?"

"Because — because I think asking people dramatic questions doesn't really accomplish anything, unless you're asking yourself that same thing and doing something about it."

Hermione leans back and grins again. "You sound like you're already in therapy."

Harry shakes his head and rubs his scar. "No, I — it's something Draco would say. Except he'd do it in a really douchey way where you can't hear it and not think he's a total prick."

Hermione smiles again and reaches forward, gently planting a hand on Harry's knee. "Listen, this whole thing was a lot and I think I'm going to go back to my desk job for a while. How about let's spend the next few days focusing on getting out of here, and then we'll go back to London together and get you some help?"

He nods but then catches himself. That's not what he wants. This — this isn't his job. He can't do it, can't handle it, he — "Hermione. I'm going to leave right now."

She smiles even wider, meaning Harry chose right and gets a gold star. Or ten points to Gryffindor if you want to be _archaic_.

"What do you want then, Harry?" she asks.

"I… I want to help Draco. Either as an Auror or some guy, I don't care. But we need to stop that Death Eater. We can't keep killing each other, and I want to come back here one day ready to show the people magic."

Hermione nods. "That's good, Harry. But you need action steps. Like tangible… does that make sense, first off?"

It does. "So — how do I help Draco? Well — I gotta git good, I reckon."

She bites her lip and holds back a snort. "Really though, Harry. What comes first? What do you do when you want to help someone but can't because you're so fundamentally broken?"

Harry knows where this is going. In fact, his entire body drains of life as if a Dementor just floated on over.

"Oh no, it's fucking therapy isn't?"

* * *

_**A/N:** Gonna cite my sources. Most of my information on climate change comes from Gleb Raygorodetsky's "The Archipelago of Hope: Wisdom and Resilience from the Edge of Climate Change." Some of the Greenpeace info is from Rex Weyler's "Greenpeace." Rest is from scattered sources I pulled from to write a super tight rain forest pitch as a canvasser. Please, if you have the ability to do something, help us stop climate change. DM me if you don't know where to start._


	8. The Face of a Leaving Father

The tap is running.

If you can recall, dear reader, the tap has run prior in this story. It hailed from a gay bar that Harry visited with his chum, Draco, and what a time it was: _Chapter 4: Oh How the Wine Talks!_ What a story. But today, reader, the tap runs in Hagrid's hut.

The frothy liquid spills from the rusty pipe into an actual bucket, that Hagrid hands over to Harry.

Harry grins, though the bucket is a bit heavy on his knees. If he were to drink all of this, he would most certainly perish a happy Harry. It's odd to be drinking with Hagrid; it's embarrassing, but the last time Harry spent time with Hagrid was… sixth year of Hogwarts.

So Harry's grand old return to Hogwarts was quite the production. It almost didn't even happen. Nowadays, you have to get permission to visit the campus if not currently attending the school, and it was only because he is Harry Potter that he was allowed immediate access. Either that, or Headmaster McGonagall just likes to be a rebel every now and then.

Harry really didn't want to see the school again, he really just wanted to see Hagrid, but he can't say no to a tour. It's nothing against Hogwarts, he will be forever grateful for the opportunity the school gave him, it's just… well, his friends died here.

Thankfully, McGonagall had the sense to not turn the school into a museum by rebuilding it into what it once was; many of the refurbished rooms from the war look entirely different now. Definitely a wise choice, especially when so many veterans either have children who come here, or like Neville, chose to return here as a Professor.

Hagrid's Hut on the other hand is the same. It was burnt down at the end of sixth year, but now it's the same as ever. It is somewhat surreal. Hagrid himself looks the same, aside from the few hints of silver in his unruly mane.

Harry sips gently from the bucket of alcohol before lowering it into his lap. "Thanks for making the time to see me, Hagrid."

Hagrid smiles, and it etches laugh lines all across what is visible on his face. This just might be the highlight of Hagrid's year right now, which is unfortunate because all Harry really wants is to talk about himself with someone. He tried — he really did — to find a therapist after disembarking from Indonesia, but therapists in the wizarding world are few and far between… and also shitty.

The Muggles definitely have the better end of the mental health care side of things, but because of the Statue of Secrecy, Harry would get tossed into Azkaban for mentioning any of the things that torment him to a Muggle.

"I was — um — in Indonesia, fighting climate change with 'Mione, only a few days ago," Harry smiles, trying to fill in the gap.

Hagrid's smile gets even wider. "From what I've heard… I couldn't be more proud of you lot."

For whatever reason, this whole thing makes Harry feel pretty bad.

Noting Harry's apprehension, Hagrid kicks his legs wide open. "You wanted to talk about something?"

"Yeah," Harry bows his head down while scratching his neck. "I — uh — I'm kinda stressed, and ya know, all my other father figures died to evil wizards, so I figured I'd go to you?"

Oh no! That came out all wrong! That makes it sound like Hagrid is the kid to get picked last for Harry's kickball team! Shoot! How can he —

Hagrid reels his head back and barks at the air, clapping his knee enthusiastically. "Wow! That's funny, Harry! Ha, evil wizards…" He wipes a tear from his eye. "It really has been eight years, huh?"

"Yeah," Harry says plainly.

Hagrid leans back and looks at the ceiling wistfully. "Sorry, this is a li'l hard on me, my friend."

Harry frowns. Did he do something wrong?

(Well yeah, he hasn't contacted Hagrid since _that_ day.)

"Last time I saws you," Hagrid says in a gravelly voice. "I was holding you. I thought you were dead. We all did… and… I've — ah — I've seen ya grow up from being a little li'l one, and now… you're so tall, and — it's amazing, Harry. Really, it is."

"Th-thanks," Harry stutters. "I'm five-five n' a half, but I get the sentiment. Uh, I'm sorry I never owled you."

Hagrid shakes his head brusquely. "No, none of that talk. I understand. It's alright. You've moved up in the world, Harry. Why would you want to come back here?"

Harry rolls back his shoulders. Has he really moved up? He still feels like he's running, like he was the day Draco found him.

"Why did you stay?" Harry asks, not knowing that was the question at the tip of his tongue.

Hagrid smiles, fat, wet lips hiding his teeth. "Professor Dumbledore made this home for me… and he's gone now, so I want to make it home for other people, now that I'm all settled." Hagrid smiles dreamily at the thought, then catches himself. "N-not to say it's bad for people to go. I understand that, Harry, really I do."

Harry nods back. "I have mixed feelings about Dumbledore."

Harry winces fast, checking that Hagrid can take the talk. Fortunately, Hagrid seems nonplussed. Back in his schooling days, Hagrid was known for being dead-set on his ways. But the war did force everyone to become more adaptable.

"He… he was like a dad to me, I kinda had a collection of dads," Harry says, thinking of Lupin, Sirius, and Albus. Sheepishly, he adds, "Not enough mums, though. But Dumbledore… he knew I would have to die, and I'm not saying he was wrong. If I didn't die, then Voldemort would still…"

Hagrid gasps silently and leans back. "So yer were dead?"

"Yes," Harry nods. "It's complicated. I just — I don't know, I'm fine with all that. I just wish I knew if he really cared about me. If he loved me."

Hagrid leans back and runs a fat thumb through the tangles of his beard. This conversation is likely far more serious than the half-giant expected. "I love you," Hagrid says simply.

"I know, Hagrid," Harry can't help but grin. "I really should have owled you sooner, huh?"

"S'alright," Hagrid shrugs. "I understand."

Harry nods, and draws himself back in. He's not sure if this is really what he wanted to be talking about. It's all so confusing. Who would have thought therapy would be so hard?

"You're not the only one I've drifted away from," Harry admits. "I never thought it'd be like this — but when I go to work, I say hello to the people I work with and tip my hat when I leave, you know what I mean? Like — "

Hagrid starts to say something.

But Harry misses the cue and continues, " — that's all I do, those are all I — sorry, you were saying something?"

"Go ahead," Hagrid nods briskly.

Harry frowns. "I don't even like the Ministry very much. Those people make me so mad."

"I heard," Hagrid wipes some of the wetness from his mustache, smiling.

Harry furrows his brow. "How'd you know that?"

"Oh, um," Hagrid frowns, clearly in distress. Like someone told him to keep a secret and he goofed it all up like he usually does. "Listen, I've been sworn to secrecy by higher powers — "

Harry's brow furrows farther. "Dumbledore's dead, man. That doesn't really work anymore, you know."

Hagrid opens his mouth in amazement, and shakes his head. "Never thought that the little boy I rescued from that lighthouse would enjoy gallows humor."

"Oh," Harry sighs. "Is that bad? Sorry — "

"No, no, it's just funny, is all," Hagrid waves it off. "You should talk to Aberforth sometime. He'd think you're a riot, I think it's funny too, but um…" He smacks his lips to slow things down for a second. "Um, that Malfoy boy came here to my hut a few months ago."

Harry perks up. "Oh? Is that right?"

Hagrid nods.

Harry considers that. "Wait, so Draco told you about me not liking the Ministry?"

"And all sorts of things," Hagrid adds. "Yeh, he, uh, came to apologize to me about all that nonsense in yer third year, but I told him no worries. I figured he felt sorry about it."

Harry leans back. Hagird must have been one of the last stops in the official Draco Malfoy Apology Tour, given how by now every wizard in the wizarding world is just about sick of Draco Malfoy saying sorry over and over again. Though it does make sense. Hagrid did see Draco when he was at his most juvenile and heinous.

"But yeh, he talked an awful lot 'bout you, Harry," Hagrid admits. "He's a lightweight that boy, heh heh."

Harry smirks. He did notice how embarassingly fast Draco got drunk at the gay bar.

Goodness, did he really go to a gay bar with Draco? That's wild.

"What else did he say?" Harry chances.

Hagrid raises an eyebrow. "Well, I was sworn to secrecy an' all that… but… I suppose it wouldn't hurt, I haven't gossiped in a long time, ya know? Filch doesn't let any of the first through third years come to my hut anymore, seeing how close I am to the Forbidden Forest…"

"That goon still works here?" Harry blurts out, immediately flushing.

Fortunately Hagrid snorts into his tub of booze. "_See_? Say that around McGonagall, and she might smirk at ye, but later on she'll say something mean about you at a boardroom thing. It's no good."

Hagrid drums his fingers against his massive thighs. Proudly, he pricks up his chin and waves his beard playfully. "Draco tolds me that he never wanted to be a Death Eater, ya know? He said he just thought he was supposed to do it."

Harry nods. He knew that already. Most people did. "Yeah, I feel that way about becoming an Auror honestly. People just told me I should do it."

"Hm," Hagrid looks at Harry carefully. "I see that. The way people talk about you, Harry, it's no wonder. I dunno how you do it."

"Well, uh," Harry says. "Remarkably, I _don't._"

Finally, Hagrid laughs and the two clash bucket-mugs. Hagrid downs more booze. "Draco's mighty resentful of that, ya know. He says that he'd kill to do what you do, but he's not so good in the field or summat like that, and he thinks that you sorta just throw it away."

A flare of anger ignites in Harry's chest. He knows that Draco probably said that from some irrational place, and it's not even like he's here to be yelled at, so Harry calms himself. Though his heel does thump against the floorboards like a rabbit's. "I didn't throw it away."

"Jus' think of it how 'e does, Harry," Hagrid gets up with a start. "C'mon, lemme show you something."

* * *

It's odd being back in the Forbidden Forest, given everything that's happened out here. Odder that it's still coated in a dark mist. For whatever reason, Harry figured Voldemort's end might have cleared things out over here, but to the Forest, he was just a blip. Makes sense. Creditting the darkness of these woods to one egomaniacal idiot would be giving Voldemort too much credit.

Harry and Hagrid walk in silence for some time, not much to say between either of them. For a while, Harry forgets they were even talking about Draco. But he is reminded once Hagrid stops and gestures to a thick, graying tree trunk. A black handprint is marred into the bark, fingers splayed wide out. Harry touches it, and bits of ash tumble off.

Harry remembers this tree; in third year, he hid behind it with Hermione when Lupin went rogue.

"Draco and I got pretty wrecked together, uh, don't tell McGonagall 'bout that," Hagrid taps his nose. "He wanted to get tougher, so I told him 'bout the beasties I needed to take care of."

"Oh no," Harry mumbles. "Is this handprint — um…"

"Yeah," Hagrid says without looking. "He, uh, got overwhelmed by some giant spiders that maybe woulda been cake to you lot, but he was scared. I forget sometimes that not everyone is as powerful as you kids…"

Watching Hagrid explain things from afar really brings him back to the days when he would get in trouble and be forced to assist Hagrid out here late at night.

"So he tried using this spell, dunno what, but it woulda burnt the forest down if he didn't stop it," Hagrid explains. "So he tried to stoppit, and he smacked his hand right there and it all sank back into him…"

Harry frowns. If he's right, and he probably is, Draco was probably using Fiendfyre. Possibly because he figured Crabbe's death at his own hands was probably due to his own ineptitude, not the spell itself. It's a miracle he was able to restrain himself before it got too out of hand.

"Wow," Harry presses his hand up against the mark. Draco's fingers are longer than his, but the palms seem smaller. He's a little drunk now, so he does think for a second that he hopes Draco can feel Harry touching his weirdo handprint. But that's probably not true. "Thanks for showing me this. I didn't know Draco was hurting so much."

"Yeh," Hagrid slurs. "'Ey, not for nothing, but you been calling him Draco all night. Not Malfoy. I guess he called you 'arry too, not Potter."

Harry nods. "Yeah. We're ah… close."

"Mm," Hagrid smiles, rolling his knuckle up against the tree bark. "I'm happy for you, Harry."

Harry furrows his brow. "What? How? I'm a fuck-up."

"Eh, so am I," Hagrid shrugs. "Way I see it, though, you've pushed a lot of people away. But you let some new ones in. Never in a million years would I think you and Draco could be pals. Same goes for me too, I guess."

"Yeah," Harry suddenly feels very thirsty. "I feel like I'm supposed to help you fight beasties right now, huh?"

Hagrid looks at Harry, and definitely blushes. "Eh, we could. I mean, you don't _have to_."

"Yeah," Harry bites his lip. "I'm kinda done with magic, Hell, I'd give you my wand, Hagrid. But I'm guessing you wouldn't want it."

"Mhm," Hagrid grins. "I've been fond of axes lately."

"Wow," Harry smiles. "That's kinda badass, mate."


End file.
